Livin On The Edge
by supernaturalsam
Summary: A once imprisoned evil threatens to push the Winchesters over the edge...PLEASE REVIEW! COMPLETED JANUARY 18, 2009!
1. Chapter 1

**This is a new fic that I am co'ing with Tree66 and we are very excited about it. We can promise you some good angst, a terrifying evil, and some brotherly love. We really hope that you enjoy this and please don't hesitate to let us know what you think!**

Spoilers for Bad Day at Black Rock and general Season 2 so you have been warned!

We own nothing except the twisted thoughts in our head...but we're working on our master evil plan as we speak...

Many thanks to our awesome beta, Bayre...she really does rock our world!  


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"You know, for a man who constantly stayed on the road, Dad sure did have a lot of crap." Sam Winchester set down the large cardboard box on Bobby's haggard-looking kitchen table. Pulling out a chair, he plopped down on it and looked across at the grizzled demon hunter.

Bobby grunted. "I'd forgotten how much stuff your daddy put in that locker." Bending down, Bobby pulled out a few letters bundled up with a rubber band. Peering at the writing, he smiled at Sam. "And I never knew what a sentimentalist John was."

Sam took the bundle from Bobby and couldn't stop the smile gracing his lips. "Old love letters…from Mom." The youngest Winchester felt a rush of sadness wash over him, immediately followed by a rush of happiness. He knew his dad always put up a front and never let anyone see his emotions, most of the time coming off as cold. But these letters told Sam differently; they told him a long time ago, his dad did have feelings and love and warmth in his heart.

"So, what's in that box?" Bobby nodded his head towards the box Sam just brought in.

Sam cleared his throat to get rid of the lump settling there. "Um…I think they're books. Maybe some papers and weapons."

"How many more you got in there?"

"I think about six."

"Great."

Sam let out a laugh as he stood up and began pulling things out of the box. "Bobby—thanks again for doing this for us."

For the past couple of days, Sam and Dean had been removing things from John's old storage locker in Buffalo, New York to Bobby's place in South Dakota. It had been a long, arduous process of carefully transporting the items piece by piece, but they'd managed to do it so far. Dean was making the last trip to Buffalo to get the most dangerous of the items while Sam stayed back with Bobby and helped the salvage yard owner sort through everything, determining what should be kept and what needed to be destroyed.

"Hey, you boys needed help and there was no way I was going to let this stuff sit in that locker, especially now Bela knows where it is and what's in there. Though how she figured out that rabbit's foot was in there is beyond me."

"She told Dean she used a Ouija board—contacted past victims and they let her know where to find it."

Bobby shook his head and Sam swore it was in somewhat wonder. "That girl always had a way of getting what she wanted."

"Have you dealt with her before?"

"Not personally, no. But I've heard talk about her from other hunters. A major pain in the ass from what I'm told."

Sam huffed as he gingerly rubbed his left shoulder where Bela's bullet grazed him. "Yeah—I'll attest to that."

The two hunters, young and old, continued to sort through the boxes as a silence settled in the room.

"Hey, Bobby…" Sam's voice trailed off.

Bobby looked up from an old tome he'd been paging through. "Yeah?"

Sam shook his head. "It's nothin'."

"You're worried about him, aren't you?"

Sam looked up in mild surprise at Bobby. "How did you know?"

Bobby let out a chuckle. "Are you kidding? I know you boys like the back of my hand—you two worry about each other as bad as a mama worries about her kids." Bobby leveled his gaze at Sam. "He's gonna be okay, Sam. He'll be back soon, you'll see."

"That's not exactly what I'm talking about."

Bobby nodded and put down the book. Walking into the kitchen, Sam heard the refrigerator door open and the sound of two clanking bottles before it was closed again. He then heard the soft hiss as the tops were popped off the bottles. Bobby came back to the table and after handing one of the beers to Sam, he took a seat beside the young hunter.

"You're still obsessin' over that deal?"

Sam took a sip of the beer and shrugged. "I can't help it, Bobby. I mean, every morning I wake up, I can't help but think I let another day get away, another day I could've saved Dean."

Bobby let out a sigh. "Sam, I told you this was going to take some time."

"That's just it, Bobby—I don't have time. _Dean _doesn't have time." Sam slammed down his beer bottle in frustration, the foamy beverage splashing onto the table.

"Sam, we are looking at every viable option we have here, and I have to be honest with you. There's not a lot of information out there about getting out of a deal once it's been made."

"Dean was able to get Evan Hudson out of his deal, Bobby. Why can't it be that easy for me?"

"As I understand it, your brother blackmailed that demon to get Hudson out of his deal. I can tell you one thing, Sam—demons learn from their mistakes and rarely do they make the same mistake twice."

Sam ran a hand through his hair. "Bobby, it's just so damn frustrating. I have been through every single book, every single internet source, hell, even Dad's journal inside and out and there is nothing out there telling me anything."

"Sam, if it was really that easy to get out of one of these crossroads deals, you really think they're gonna advertise it?"

"No, I guess not. But, Bobby, that's not the only thing—it's Dean."

"What about Dean? Is something else wrong with him?"

Sam gave a half shrug as he took another swig of his beer. "I'm not sure of that myself. I mean, he acts as if this deal isn't anything, as if it doesn't bother him. I hate to say it, but it's almost as if he's ready to give up. He even told me that he was tired and it's not the first time he's told me that."

"When else did he tell you this?"

"A few months ago, back in Oregon when we were dealing with the demonic virus, he said he was tired of it—the job, the life."

Bobby leaned forward in his chair and patted Sam on the leg. "I hate to say it, Sam, but maybe your brother's telling you the truth."

"Bobby—"

Bobby held up a hand to stop Sam. "Now, I'm not saying that I agree with it, Sam. I'm just saying, in Dean's mind, maybe he is tired of it all. You're daddy raised him to follow in his footsteps and by God, if Dean didn't do just that."

"I know, Bobby, but I want to give Dean the chance to do more. I want him to give a crap about what I'm trying to do for him."

"You know that's not Dean—he doesn't like people giving up things for him, going out of their way for him and the same goes for you too, Sam. Dean's never wanted that kind of attention on him."

"He did it for me," Sam said softly.

"And he'll continue to do it for you until his dying breath, Sam. It's just who your stubborn, stupid, pigheaded brother is."

Sam smiled and looked up at Bobby. "But we're still going to look for a way out of this, right?"

Bobby took a hearty swig of his beer and nodded. "I'm actually working on something."

Sam's eyes instantly lit up. "What is it?"

Bobby didn't say anything as he stood up and walked into what sufficed as his living room. Sam quickly followed the older man to his desk. Once there, Bobby unwrapped a white cloth and stepped back so Sam could see.

"Bobby, is that—"

"The Colt? That it is, Sam."

"So you think—"

Bobby held up a hand to stop Sam. "Now, son, I don't want you to get your hopes up, but there may be a way where the gun can be useful once again. I've been reading up on it and I think I can get it working, but it's gonna take some time."

"But if you do fix it, you think we can use it on the crossroads demon? We can force her to break the contract with Dean?"

"I'm not promising you anything, Sam, but it's a possibility. But I don't want you to give up looking into other options, either—just in case."

"Thanks, Bobby. This—this is big."

"No promises, Sam." Bobby folded the gun back into the cloth and went back to the table.

Sam watched him walk away and couldn't help the fleeting moment of hope washing over him. Yes, it was a very big possibility that the Colt wouldn't work again and he'd be back to square one. But the hope was the only thing Sam had going for him right now and he'd be damned if he was going to let it get away from him.

"Sam, you going to get your ass back in here or not? 'Cause I'm not going through the rest of this shit by myself."

"Yeah, I'm coming, Bobby."

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Dean scanned the now barren storage room one final time, walking around the empty shelves and bare workbench, double checking that every last trace of his father's work had been removed. It had taken nearly a week to cleanout and transport the myriads of collected supernatural paraphernalia, not to mention carefully dispose of the munitions the ex-marine had left behind. Each time he and Sam came back to retrieve another load had been no less surprising than the first visit to their Dad's secret cache.

Even now, even with the place vacant and musty, Dean had to smile. "You sneaky bastard, so full of secrets. Couldn't you have trusted us just one little bit? Would it have killed you to have mentioned this place over a beer?" he grumbled.

A noise to his left made the young hunter spin around, .45 immediately out and fanning the dark room. He grimaced slightly, lowering the weapon as he spotted the rat skitter underneath one of the shelving units. Dean startled again when his cell phone warbled alive in his pocket. Retrieving it, he tapped the call on after seeing it was Sam.

"Hey Sammy!"

"How's it going, Dean? You almost done?" his brother's voice questioned.

"Yeah, just finished loading the last box into the Impala. I was giving the place the once over before I leave. Don't want to accidentally leave anything behind for that bitch Bela to get her paws on. Hmm, except maybe that…"

"What, Dean? Did you forget something?"

"Yeah, a box of rat poison. Do you think if I lock it in a curse box, she'll come and get it? Probably couldn't be that lucky could I?" Dean mused.

Sam's chuckle sounded through the phone as Dean paced back toward the sliding door to the storage room. He looked over his shoulder once more, feeling as though a set of unseen eyes were on his back, sending a chill down his spine and making him want to be free of this place and the secrets that it held.

"Ya' know Sam, I just can't get over how Dad kept this place for so long and never said a word to us about it. Do you think he had any others?" he asked, standing in the doorway and turning to look one last time at the interior room. He shivered unconsciously, and for the briefest moment, his mind's eye tricked him into visualizing his dad working in the dark quarters, prepping for a hunt or even doing his own strange version of debriefing following one.

There was still so much they didn't know about their Dad. Would never know now, not unless there truly was an afterlife, in which case, Dean still wouldn't know thanks to his impending one-way trip to the pits of Hell. Still, he'd seen his Dad crawl out of the Gate, seen him fight the yellow-eyed demon, even seen him erupt in brilliant, sparkling lights and fly heavenward. So, if he never stood the chance of catching up with dear old Dad in whatever passed for the hereafter, at least he'd given Sam a chance at it. That was good enough, he'd convinced himself.

"Dean? You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry. Just one last check,' he replied quickly, pulling the door closed. "I'm heading out, bro. Should be there by tomorrow afternoon, okay? Just tell Bobby to have a couple of cold ones waiting for me."

"You got it. And hey, call me if you want. If you get tired or something," the younger sibling offered.

"Okay Mom. Seriously, dude, I'll be fine. Been driving a helluva lot longer than you and um, lets see, I've never gotten the Impala smashed to bits by a demon-driven semi," Dean teased.

"Whatever! I'll see you here tomorrow then," Sam snapped back.

Dean replaced the phone in his pocket and slowly walked down the empty hallway to the awaiting Chevy. Stepping outside, the morning sunshine had given way to a cold afternoon drizzle, the sky an ominous gray that alluded to an oncoming storm.

"Just friggin' great!" he bemoaned, pulling the collar of his jacket up closer to his neck and dashing towards the waiting car.

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The drizzle turned into a full-fledged downpour and then, just to spite him, mixed with an icy slush that clung to the Impala's windshield and defied the wipers to remove the freezing precipitation. In and of itself, Dean wouldn't have minded the change in weather, after all the years behind the wheel, he was used to driving in nearly anything. But the detour off I-90 just outside of Buffalo, courtesy of a ten car pileup, had been more than just an annoyance. Forcing him onto the mountain roads in northern Pennsylvania, it added at least an extra two hours on to the trip back to Bobby's, not to mention that the remoteness took him away from anything that resembled a decent place to get something to eat.

His stomach growled, reminding him that now was not the time for Dean to become "picky" about what he chose to shove in his mouth. He stretched across the front seat, reaching into the glove compartment and rooting through the contents until he came across the half eaten one-pounder bag of peanut M&M's. He couldn't remember when he put the bag in there, but they weren't stale, although peanut M&M's _never_ had the chance to go stale when in his possession. That was just sacrilegious after all. Tossing a handful into his mouth, he crunched on them mindlessly as the wipers continued their staccato beat, completely out of time to ZZ Top's _Sharp Dressed Man_.

He leaned forward and in a rarely occurring move, turned off the music, unable to stand the cacophony of noise any longer. As he blindly reached for another handful of candy, his hand brushed against the small shoebox sitting on Sam's vacated shotgun position. Containing a smattering of smaller items that he picked up from the shed, it was the last of the trinkets their dad had sequestered in the secret place.

Stealing a glance inside, Dean spotted Sam's soccer trophy peeking above some of the other pieces. Dusty and slightly tarnished from years of neglect, he could still remember the day his twelve year old brother had received the award. A gangly, dirt-covered, but grinning from ear to ear, Sam, rushing off the soccer field proudly raising the trophy as he scurried to his waiting family on the sidelines. The real magic in that day hadn't been that the kid's team had won the division championship, the real wonder had been that for the moment, they had almost seemed like a normal family. Settled in one spot long enough that Sam could participate in team sports, even John managed to take the time to make an appearance at what was one of the most important moments of the young boy's life at the time. Hell, they'd even gone out and celebrated afterward, eating pizza, going to a movie, acting like any other middle-class American family. At least, any other family that hadn't lost a wife and mother to demon fire and then spent the rest of their days hunting down and disposing of every thing that went bump in the dark.

He pulled the trophy from the box, balancing it on top the steering wheel while he looked at it more closely. Part of him was surprised that Sam hadn't snatched the thing up on one of their previous trips. He knew his brother had cared about the keepsake, knew that in their vagabond childhoods, items like the award were few and far between. He also knew there were a few things that Sam had fiercely clung to no matter how many times they moved or how much Dad had insisted they didn't have the time or space to be toting extra items around. The trophy had been one of those items. Had been, that was, until just before that fateful argument and Sam stormed off to California. When he left for Stanford, it had been with little else than the clothes on his back and the spares in his bag. Things like the trophy were casualties in the battle of wills between John and Sam Winchester. Trophies and Dean.

Broken from his memories by the music from his cell, Dean gently replaced the trophy to the box before answering. He glanced at the caller ID and groaned. Sam again!

"What Sam?" he snapped.

"Just checking to see where you were. Did you stop to eat yet? Is it still raining?"

"I'm still in the Impala, yes I've eaten, well sorta and no, it's not raining; now it's sleeting. Happy now, Mom?" Dean replied in one breath.

"You don't have to be a smart-ass, Dean."

"Well, that beats you calling me a dumbass I suppose. Seriously, Sam, its sleeting, the weather sucks, the road sucks, and I haven't seen the first sign of life for the past fifty miles."

"Are you lost?"

"I'm not even gonna dignify that with an answer, Sam. Is Bobby with you?" the older hunter asked with irritation.

"Yeah, why?" Sam questioned suspiciously.

"Cause you better get him to build one of those boxes around your ass to protect you if you ever ask me a question like that again," Dean warned.

"It was just an honest question. It's not like the Impala has a GPS in it and I know how some of those old highways up in the mountains can be. Besides, it's my job to be worried about you," Sam refuted.

"No, actually Sam, it's your job to be going through all that stuff from Dad's locker. How are you guys coming with it?"

"We're plugging along. Bobby's been dealing with some of the curse boxes. We're saving the disposal of the grenades and landmines till you get here. Bobby figured you'd enjoy that."

Dean chuckled. "He knows me too well. Just tell him to have a picture of Bela handy. I want to blow it all to hell. Actually, go to Kinkos and make several copies, Dad had a lot of grenades to get rid of."

There was a moment of silence before Dean heard his brother's voice again.

"So, um, I've been kinda going through some papers of Dad's too," Sam began.

"Oh really? Notes on hunts?" Dean asked.

"Not exactly…"

"What are they then?"

"They're letters from Mom to Dad and vice versa. Love letters, some of them."

"You're reading Mom and Dad's love letters? Dude, isn't that kinda… I dunno, personal. I mean, don't you think its kinda weird reading that stuff now?" Dean questioned.

He pictured in his mind those times when his dad would sneak in the backdoor, grabbing his mom around the waist as she stood cooking dinner. He could hear his mother squeal in surprise, whirling around and feigning anger just before she would throw her arms around his strong neck and be swept up in a passionate kiss. Dean could remember the two of them, frequently kissing, always holding hands when walking, secretly whispering in each other's ears only to be followed by a soft giggle by his mother or even a warm embrace from his dad.

Had there ever been a doubt about the fact that his parents were madly in love? Hadn't he seen the agony in his father's eyes for over two decades every single time his mother's name was mentioned? Yeah, he knew they loved each other, he didn't need to read letters to prove it.

"I guess it just helps me know them better," Sam justified. "I mean, I know Dad loved Mom, but he never really talked about her. I don't really know how they met or anything about when they first were married. Hell, I don't really know that much about Mom at all. Getting Dad to talk about her was about like getting Dad to talk… well, about anything."

Dean didn't reply, still absorbed by the memory of his parents before that fateful night Sam's nursery.

"Dean? Hey, if it bothers you, I mean, I don't have to read them…"

"Nah, it's alright. Go for it, Sammy."

"Well, if you're okay with it"

"SAM…" Dean's voice rose, irritated. "Just read the friggin' letters. It's no big deal. Hey look, it's getting dark and the roads are turning to shit. You mind if we wrap this up for now?"

Dean cringed inwardly when he heard or rather didn't hear his brother immediately answer. He hadn't really meant to snap so sharply at Sam. He knew that he was the ever present source of mental and emotional anguish for his younger brother, the crossroads deal and all, but that didn't excuse him for being a callous ass in other things as well.

"Sam, look, I should be coming back up to I-80 before too long. I'll call you when I get there and stop for gas, okay?" he suggested.

"Yeah, okay, that sounds good. Just be careful, alright," his brother implored.

"I will. Talk to you later," Dean finished, ending the call and sighing with relief as he tossed the cell onto the seat beside him. It struck the small box and bounced onto the floorboard on the passenger's side of the car causing Dean to curse.

With one hand on the steering wheel, he leaned over to the right, straining to reach the phone. His fingertips grazed the edge of the Motorola, but couldn't close around the thin cellular. He sat back up to catch a quick glimpse of the road before diving down after the phone again. Grunting with the effort, the cell was still just barely out of reach.

Dean was about to give up when the phone slid ever so slightly toward his hand. He would have been grateful except at that same moment, the shoebox slid over and smacked into him as well. Had the movement been some generous twist of fate, Dean might have just figured this to be his lucky day. But no, if there was one thing he knew to be true, cursed rabbit's feet aside, was that words like "Winchester" and "luck" were rarely used in the same sentence.

As he bolted upright in the seat, he immediately knew what accounted for the sudden shift of contents in the car. The Impala itself was shifting on the roadway, the tires losing their grip on the wet pavement. Dean's hands automatically tightened on the steering wheel and his foot lifted slightly off the gas pedal. He knew better than to react by pressing on the brake, that would only make the Chevy's slide much more exaggerated.

He waited for the car to come back under control and for a moment, he thought it was going to happen as the speed began to decrease, until he saw the sharp curve ahead of him in the road. With no choice, he was forced to brake now, his foot pressing intermittently but firmly on the pedal as he silently prayed for the heavy muscle car to stop.

Dean cursed again as he realized that the sleet that had been pelting his windshield had created black ice on the highway and his _Winchester luck_ had managed to find it. The Impala fishtailed violently, the back end swinging nearly around and dangerously close the mountain of rock that loomed on the right side of the highway. Dean managed to steer the car back around but not before the rear fender glanced off the guardrail with a screech of metal on metal.

He pressed down on the brakes again, feeling the car respond, lacking anything that resembled traction and angling off to the left this time. Panicked as the edge of the road loomed ahead of him, Dean steered back towards the side of the mountain, preferring to run into one instead of off of one.

The Impala struck the guardrail again, throwing him forward violently into the dash. He felt his left shoulder strike the side of the door just before he slammed into the steering wheel. Ahead of him, he saw the road disappear into nothingness as the pavement gave way to dirt and then open sky.

With the car's momentum still being perpetuated by the slick road and carrying him dangerously closer to the edge, Dean jammed both feet down on the brake pedal using all his weight, strength and desperation to get the car to stop as he tried to force the metal beast to change directions.

The Chevy hit the dirt shoulder of the highway still skidding but slower, yet not enough to prevent it from rupturing the last line of protection as it tore through the guardrail at the edge. With both legs still extended, Dean sucked in a deep breath as he watched the terrain in front of him vanish, bracing himself for the impact that he knew would be painful, even if it was only for the briefest second.

"So much for that friggin' deal…" he mumbled just before his head, chest and a good portion of the rest of his two-hundred and six bones, slammed forward against the dash.


	2. Tell Me What You Think About Your

**Thanks so much for reading and letting us know what you think, everyone! We really appreciate it!**

**Many thanks to our awesome beta, Bayre--we don't know how she does it...**

**Enjoy and let us know what you think!**

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Sam sighed as he hung up the phone and set it down on the table. He could tell by the tone of Dean's voice his brother was bothered by the fact Sam was reading the letters, but the young hunter didn't care. He didn't really see what the problem was. After all, it's like he told Dean—he didn't know much about their mother, just what Dean remembered from when he was younger and the few mentions from his dad as Sam was growing up.

"I told you Dean wouldn't like you calling him again," Bobby's voice called out from the other room.

Sam smiled as he rose from his chair and went to stand in the doorway of Bobby's living room. "He'll get over it."

Bobby snorted. "Either that or kick your ass when he gets here." He kept his attention focused on the Colt, spread out in pieces on his desk. A desk lamp lit up the workspace and Bobby had a large, free-standing magnifying glass sitting in front of him. "Where was he at?"

Sam's smile grew a little wider as he heard the concern in Bobby's voice. Sam knew Bobby was just ribbing him about calling Dean again, but the truth of the matter was Bobby was just as concerned about the elder Winchester as Sam. "He said he was about to hit I-80, but it was starting to sleet."

Bobby nodded. "Yeah, I've been listening to the weather reports. The front that moved through here was heading his way." He glanced up at Sam from under the brim of his ballcap. "I just hope that brother of yours knows to be careful."

"He should be fine. He's driven in this kind of weather before." Sam smirked. "Besides, he wouldn't purposely put the Impala in jeopardy if he could help it."

The grizzled hunter chuckled, but it came out more as a throaty growl. "You're right about that. I swear if your brother ever loved a woman the way he loves that car, that girl would be in some serious trouble."

"Yeah." Sam pushed off the wall. "I got the last box finished—there were quite a few books in there so I just put them with all your others. I really didn't go through them and see what they were but I'll do it tomorrow."

"They ain't goin' nowhere," Bobby said with a wave of his hand.

"I thought I would head up the road and grab us a bite to eat—unless you'd rather I cook something while you work on the Colt."

Bobby stopped fiddling with the old weapon long enough to look up at Sam. "Son, do I look like I have a death wish? The keys to the truck are on the kitchen counter."

"Anything in particular you might want?"

"Yeah, anything you don't put your paws on."

Sam shook his head as he headed towards the kitchen. "I'll be back in a little bit."

Bobby's grunt was Sam's reply as the young hunter grabbed the keys from the counter. From the corner of his eye, he spotted the letters from his parents sitting where he'd left them on the table. Scooping them up, he stuffed them into his jacket pocket and after shrugging it on, he walked out into the chilly night.

Bobby's old pick-up started with relative ease, only taking two tries. Turning on the headlights, Sam eased the truck down the dirt drive and pulled out onto the main road heading into town. Just on the outskirts of Sioux City, South Dakota, Bobby lived far enough away from town in order to have his privacy and close enough where he didn't have to travel out of his way to get whatever he may need.

As the full moon above cast a luminescent glow on the scenery around him, Sam couldn't help but feel at ease. Being at Bobby's for the past couple of days had helped take away some of the stress he'd been feeling as of late. It was hard enough trying to deal with all the demons that escaped from hell as well as trying to find Dean a way to get out of his deal. Not to mention the fact Dean telling him if he found a way to get his older brother out of the deal, it could very possibly result in his own death…again.

Sam was willing to take that chance, though. The youngest Winchester was so tired of Dean sacrificing everything—his childhood, his sanity, his life—for him. Sam wanted his brother to see that he was also worth saving, the world didn't revolve around Sam and his needs. Dean was very much part of this world as well and someone needed to show him that.

Then there was the fact Dean seemed upset with Sam after he'd told Dean he'd been reading the letters. Again, he didn't see the harm in it but how could he explain that to Dean? How could he explain to Dean this was something he needed to do, if only to feel closer to the mother he never really knew and the father who spent most of his time away from the brothers? Dean got to have those four precious years of no monsters, no demons, no hunting with two loving parents while Sam never got the chance of that—unless you counted the first sixth months of his life, which he didn't. Sam didn't remember that time so it didn't make it real to him. If you asked him, it was all a fantasy and the life he had now—that was what was real, the life he was meant to have all along.

Spotting a little park, Sam signaled and turned off the road. Pulling up under the canopy of one of the security lights, Sam killed the engine and got out of the truck. Pulling the letters from his jacket pocket, he made his way to one of the many wooden park benches dotting the property. Climbing on top of it and sitting down, he picked up where he'd left off before calling Dean.

As his eyes took in the feminine scrawl on the outside of the letter, he nearly dropped it. There was his name staring back at him written in his mother's handwriting. Sam's heart leapt into his throat and he suddenly felt as if he would pass out. It was a letter addressed to him…_Sammy_.

Taking a deep breath, he slowly opened the old letter and felt tears instantly well up in his eyes.

_My sweet little Sammy,_

_Today is the day I brought you into this world and into our lives. When you were placed into my arms and opened your eyes to me, I could see by looking into those hazel depths you were destined for great things._

_You have a mother who will always be there for you no matter what. Always remember that, Sammy—no matter where you or I may be, I am always going to be there for you. I want so much for you and I want you to be everything I know you can be. There will be times when life tries to throw you curves, but you just have to learn to dodge them and pick yourself up off the ground. Life is always going to be full of challenges—you just have to pick which ones you're going to let get the best of you and even then, you'll find your way past them._

_You have a father who has the kindest heart of any man I know. Don't let his gruff voice and tough love fool you because beneath all that is a man who will give anything for his family. If you are anything like the man I know John to be, you will go far in your life, Sammy. Your father has a deep soul, one that is so pure and true it shines brighter than any star in the sky. He will be there to guide you always, Sammy—never forget. _

_Most importantly you have Dean—a brother who is so full of life and love in his heart, He will guide you along, take you by the hand and show you the world. He loves deeper and has a kind soul unlike anyone else and his smile can truly light up the world. If there is anyone out there I would want you to strive to be and to shadow, it would be Dean. Let him guide you, Sammy, for as long as you can because when you have Dean, you will have the world at your fingertips. He will never steer you wrong and though he is still so young himself he will give you everything he has—his strength, hope, devotion, courage, and most of all his love. Remember that always, Sammy, and I will have no worries about where you go in life._

_I love you with all my heart, _

_Mom_

Sam let out a hitched breath as he came to the end of the letter. The last paragraph struck him deeply for he knew everything she said was true about Dean. If she could have seen the man Dean was now, the man she knew he could be, she would be so proud—Sam had no doubts about it. Feeling a tear run a trail down his cheek, he wiped it away and took a deep breath.

He now had something in his hands that was his mother's—her words. It meant more to him at that very moment than anything else in the world possibly could. Gently folding the letter back up, he put it into his pocket and glanced down at the next one in the stack. It was in the same gentle writing as his, but it was addressed to Dean.

Sam wasn't going to read it—he couldn't do that to Dean. It was Mary's private words to her eldest son and Sam couldn't betray his brother like that. Dean deserved to have this moment, especially now.

A sudden chirp pierced the quiet night, causing Sam to jump. Realizing it was his phone, he quickly dug it out of his pocket. Thinking it may be Dean telling him he was getting gas, he felt slight disappointment when he saw it was Bobby's number on the Caller ID.

"Bobby, what is it?"

"_Where the hell are you, Sam?"_

"What are you talking about? I told you I was getting us something to eat."

"_Yeah, and that was an hour ago. What the hell's taking you so long?"_

An hour? Had he really been sitting out here that long? "I kind of got sidetracked." Jumping down from the table, Sam gathered up the letters and walked back towards the truck. "I'm about to be at the diner so I'll see you in about twenty minutes."

"_Just be careful."_

"Sure thing, Bobby." Sam hung up the phone and continued his way towards town.

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"Bobby, I'm back!"

Sam closed the door with his foot as he balanced a couple of carryout bags in his hands. Making his way towards the kitchen, he placed them on the table just as Bobby came in from the living room.

"What took you so long?"

"I was just doing some thinking." He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it across the chair. "Sorry I made you worry."

Bobby smirked as he grabbed a couple of beers from the refrigerator. "Hell, I wasn't worried about you—I was worried about my truck."

Sam smiled as he took one of the beers from Bobby. The demon hunter could come up with any cover-up he wanted, but Sam knew he was worried. He could tell by the sound of Bobby's voice when he called him earlier. Digging into the carryout bags, Sam handed one of the containers to Bobby. "Have you heard from Dean, yet?"

Bobby shook his head. "Nope—you?"

"No. He told me he'd call when he stopped for gas."

Bobby opened his container, the aroma of country fried steak instantly filling the room. "He'll call as soon as he can, Sam."

Sam shook his head as he took a swig of his beer. "No, he should have called by now."

Bobby glanced up at him. "You said the weather was acting up, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"He probably got delayed then." He put a bite of the meat in his mouth. When Sam didn't make a move towards his food, he let out a sigh. "If it will make you feel better, call him."

Sam didn't know why he wanted Bobby's permission to call Dean, but he wasn't about to waste time dwelling on it. He made a frantic grab for his phone and hit the speed dial for Dean's phone. Sam's worry for his brother increased with every passing ring.

"_This is Dean. I can't come to the phone right now so leave me a message."_

Sam disconnected the call and leaned back in his chair.

"No answer?"

Sam shook his head.

"Maybe he's in the store, paying for gas or getting something to eat."

"No, I don't think so." He looked up at Bobby. "I don't know how to explain it but I feel like something's wrong."

"What do you mean you feel like something's wrong?"

Sam shrugged. "I told you I couldn't explain it, Bobby." He hit the speed dial for Dean again and was met with the same end result as before.

"_This is Dean…"_

"Dammit." Sam slammed the phone down on the table.

"Sam, you need to calm down and stop overreacting. There has to be a good reason Dean's not answering his phone."

Sam shook his head once more and fixed Bobby with a piercing glare. "It's the only explanation, Bobby. Dean carries his phone with him everywhere." He took a deep breath, trying desperately to push away at the fear threatening to overcome him. "Dean's in trouble."

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Squeeeeeeek … swwiiissshhhhh … squeeeeeeek … swwiiissshhhhh … squeeeeeeek … the irritating sound repeated over and over, obnoxious enough to his unconscious mind it helped bring him back awake if for no other reason than to seek it out and make it stop. He reached out with a shaking hand, swiping blindly, hoping to make contact with whatever was causing the racket in an effort to silence it. Instead, his hand struck the steering wheel in front of him.

_Steering wheel? What the hell?_ Squeeeeeeek … swwiiissshhhhh … That sound again!

Dean forced his eyes open and was greeted to … darkness. Brief panic engulfed him, but as he forced himself to take a deep breath, then another, the soft glow from the dash created enough illumination he quickly realized he wasn't blind, rather it was just a moonless, dark night enveloping the Chevy.

Squeeeeeeek … swwiiissshhhhh … He pushed the base of his hands against his eyes, forcing them to focus in the dim light as he sought out the annoying noise. Dean watched with fascination as the windshield wipers swiped across the tempered glass. Now devoid of any precipitation, the rubber of the blades caught against the dry glass, squealing in protest as the wiper motor continued to force the motion. Dean reached forward with a groan and turned them off.

Memory rushed back as he slumped against the cool leather of the seat. The detour and crappy weather, the black ice and losing control, the guardrail and breaking through it… wait… why the hell was he still alive? He struggled to sit up, needing to look out the windshield when the first wave of unadulterated pain drove upward through his leg like someone had struck him with a sledge hammer. Biting his lower lip, Dean stopped moving and froze in place while he waited for his lungs to expand and accept another breath.

Panting now, his heart pounding and a fine sheen of sweet appearing on his forehead, Dean attempted the tiniest movement of his right leg. The resultant pain was instantaneous and excruciating accompanied by a shockwave of blinding heat that brought bile up to the back of his throat. He cried out this time, unable to stifle the verbal response, uncaring at this point.

With a trembling hand, Dean fumbled in the pocket of his jacket until his hand enclosed on the mini Maglite inside. He twisted the flashlight on, quickly shining it down toward the floorboard and his legs. In the back of his mind, his brain was working on the "why" of him still being alive, but as he took in the bloodied denim and obvious deformity of his right lower leg, "being alive" seemed like a lesser question to consider. Wedged between the brake and gas pedal, his booted ankle was twisted at a sickening angle and even if the blood hadn't been an indication of it being broken, Dean was fairly certain the agonizing pain and the angulation was a dead giveaway.

With the flashlight still in hand, Dean slowly scanned the Impala's interior. The small shoebox was gone from its place beside him, as was the remnant of his bag of M&M's, now scattered like primary-colored marbles across the seat and floor. He stole a quick look over his shoulder into the rear, seeing the items from his dad's shed once on the back seat were mostly now on the rear floor as well. The car itself was canted forward at an angle that indicated the Impala had indeed gone over the edge after smashing through the guardrail, but apparently not plummeted hundreds of feet to a fiery explosion of twisted metal and smashed bones as he'd initially anticipated. Well, at least one smashed bone maybe?

He aimed the beam of light out the front windshield, curious to see where the car had landed, but the darkness was too much for the meager ray. Shining it out the driver's side window, Dean saw a patch of ground just outside and assumed there must have been a secondary ledge just beyond where he'd skidded off the icy pavement.

"Maybe the Winchester luck is turning?" he mumbled aloud. Although a portion of him realized he was still in some fairly deep shit at the moment, it was a far cry from where he thought he was gonna be when his head hit the steering wheel a some time before.

"Okay, think Winchester. Where do you start with the mess you got yourself into now?"

As if in answer, the first notes of Dean's latest ringtone sounded from his cell phone. Twisting suddenly to the noise, he gasped when both his ankle and his ribcage shouted out in a chorus of pain to the movement. Dean leaned back against the seat, his breath becoming ragged and shallow as he once again fought down the blackness following on the heels of hurt. The music played a moment longer then his phone went silent as the voicemail picked up the call.

Dean's head sagged back against the seat but immediately jolted upright when his phone went off once more. He aimed the flashlight towards the passenger's side floor where the phone had fallen right before the wreck. Slightly muffled, he knew it must still lie there underneath the contents of the shoebox that had been tossed from the seat during the impact. As Rush played on, Dean knew on his best day he'd never make it to the phone before it went to voicemail again, especially not in his current condition. He knew it was Sam calling him, checking up on him like the worried mother hen only Sammy could be. Yet as the phone ceased its music, for once, Dean was grateful for his baby brother's chronic concern and he was silently praying Sam's over-active paranoia might kick into gear right now.

"Come on, bro. Call me back. Figure it out. You know I'd answer if I could," Dean pleaded in the direction of the out of reach phone. "I'm in some serious shit here and I don't think I'm gonna be able to get myself out of it without a little help. So, now would be a really good time for the psychic wonder to make an appearance again."

He waited for the phone to ring again, nearly holding his breath in anticipation, the flashlight shining down toward the floor as he watched. One minute, then five passed, but the cell remained silent.

Ten minutes passed and Dean's hope began to wan. Maybe he'd been too harsh with Sam before, gave him too much crap about checking up on him that now, Sam figured Dean was ignoring him. Or, maybe Dean's lack of answering the previous two calls already spurred his uber-fearful brother into action. Then again, back to the Winchester luck, maybe they had been nothing more than wrong numbers?

The young hunter shined the flashlight onto the face of his watch. Just a bit past eight, it was going to be a long cold night if he was stuck out here in the Impala, in the dark, on the side of a mountain, alone and injured.

"Great! Nice fix you managed to get yourself into, Dean! Now how you gonna get yourself out of it? Can't rely on Sammy to save your ass. Even if he left Bobby's right now, he's a good fifteen hours away."

Dean carefully laid the flashlight on the seat beside him, allowing the beam to cast a broad ray throughout the front of the car. Sucking in a deep breath, he next reached down with both hands to grasp the sides of his lower right leg. Taking a firm hold of the denim, ignoring the pain in his bruised ribs as he bent forward, he couldn't disregard the dizziness that caused his vision to blur as his head tipped downward. Closing his eyes and forcing himself to breathe in slowly through his nose, Dean waited till the vertigo passed.

"Wonderful, head, chest, broken leg, what the hell else did I tear up?"

As though the Chevy heard his comment and empathized with his physical pain, the black car shifted slightly on its precarious perch, groaning as the metal undercarriage scraped along the rocky ledge that held it. Inside, Dean froze, momentarily worried the fierce pounding of his heart might be enough to send the Impala over the precipice. When the classic car didn't move any further, he let out the breath he was holding and slowly inched his hands further down his leg until they reached the top of his CAT boots.

His fingertips met wetness there, _blood_, followed by torn fabric, flesh and the sharp edge of bone that had pierced through just above the boot. Moving as delicately as possibly, he grabbed the top of the boot and pulled upward. The pain induced nausea from earlier returned, along with the blackness that threatened to overtake him. Dean stopped abruptly as the boot caught on the edge of the pedal jarring the fractured bone. Letting go of the leather, he reached up and stuffed the collar of his jacket into his mouth and went at it again. Inhaling through his nose, he grasped the boot, did a mental three count and pulled in one relatively fluid motion. His foot came free with an audible "pop" that did nothing to reassure Dean of the condition of his leg. Gently releasing it to rest limply against the floor, he sagged back against the seat, spitting out the fabric of his jacket, and closing his eyes as the sweat trickled down the side of his face.

He sat that way for several minutes, too exhausted to move, too afraid to move too far for fear whatever was holding the car might suddenly give way. It was finally the continued seeping of wetness into the boot that spurred him into further action. Knowing he needed to take care of the leg, knowing he needed ultimately to get his ass off the side of this mountain, Dean leaned over slightly in the seat. With his upper body lying nearly flat across the front seat, the temptation to just succumb to the darkness was almost overwhelming. He could feel his eyelids becoming heavy, his brain signaling the rest of his body to simply slow down, his breathing evening out as his muscles relaxed from their taut contracture.

"Shit!" he shouted, jerking alert. "King of the friggin' concussion, I should know better. Dammit, Dean, stay the hell awake!"

Refocused, he grabbed the flashlight and aimed it down toward the floor where he'd last seen his cell phone. Buried under the upended contents of the shoebox, the cellular was no where to be seen, but Dean knew it was there, he'd heard it ringing earlier.

"S'pose it'd be too much to ask for if you'd call back right about now, Sam? I swear I won't bitch at you. Hell, call me back and I swear I won't ever bitch at you for checking in on me again."

But despite his wishful thinking, the cell remained silent. "Okay, fine. I take it all back. Call me back or I'm gonna kick your ass Sam!" And still, the cell remained obstinately quiet.

With no other options, Dean leaned over the edge of the seat, stretching his arm out and began rooting through the miasma of items on the floor. Some scattered notes, retrieved from underneath the workbench, blanketed the other items. He tossed them aside and came next to Sam's trophy. Despite the gravity of his situation, Dean took the extra minute to gaze at the cherished keepsake in the beam of the Maglite before gently placing it up on the seat next to him, thankful this one thing wasn't damaged in the crash. He sorted through some other odds and ends until he finally spotted the Motorola, groaning as his eyes landed on its position.

"Friggin' fantastic! Why the hell didn't it just land in the back seat while it was at it?" he grumbled, looking at the cellular which was wedged partially underneath the far corner of the floor mat.

Groaning, Dean rolled slightly on his side to lengthen his reach. Extending his arm out, fingers straining, he reached for the phone. He wasn't even close! Relaxing briefly, he sucked in a deep breath and tried again, unconsciously pushing off with his feet to elongate his body further and accidentally jostling his broken leg.

"SONOFABITCH!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, his head slamming back against the leather as he pounded the seat with his fist. If moving his leg had been a mistake, then banging his already concussed skull was the next dumbest thing he'd done as flares of light blossomed behind closed eyelids. He lifted his head slightly, opening his eyes to mere slits, but the flashes continued like an army of photographers snapping off countless pictures one after another. Reaching a hand up to his head, his fingers touched the gelling stickiness of coagulating blood at his hairline.

"Can't lay here, dude. Get up, gotta get up, gotta get the phone, get help, get Sam, get the hell out of here, get the hell out of hell, not going to hell a day earlier than I'm due, no early check in…" he rambled. "Dammit, stop! Stopstopstopstopstop."

Dean pulled in a full breath, hands returned to his sides as he willed himself to get under control. He recognized the signs of a head injury, knew his inability to concentrate was also hampered by the blood loss from the open fracture in his leg. His survival depended on reaching that phone, getting help, stopping the bleeding, staying awake; and generally in that order.

"Okay, going for broke. Do or die. Suck it up, Winchester. It's just a flesh wound," he chastised himself.

Rolling over slowly to his right side again, ignoring the tenderness in his chest, forcing himself to breathe through the pain, he spotted the cell phone. Crimping his eyes tightly shut, he took in several long breaths, holding the last one before pushing off with his left foot only and launching toward the elusive device. His cry of agony would have raised the hair on the neck of anyone hearing it, had there been anyone within screaming distance. But the effort paid off as his fingers closed around the phone and he drew it back to his chest, securing it there and clinging to it with a trembling hand.

Dean ran a forearm across his head, wiping away perspiration and caked blood. He considered attempting to sit back up but even the slightest movement in that direction made the interior of the Impala swirl crazily in his field of vision. Deciding it wasn't worth the effort, he lifted the cellular and tapped the scrolling button, illuminating the screen. He keyed down until he came to Sam's programmed cell number, accidentally went one past it swearing quietly. He tapped the key back up until it highlighted Sam again and quickly hit the "send" button, nervously waiting for the call to connect as he felt darkness beginning to eat at the edges of his consciousness.

"Answer Sammy, please answer," he pleaded, feeling the cold numbness crawling up from his extremities and threatening to drag him down into its icy embrace.

Then, just as his eyes gave up the fight to remain focused on the small screen and his mind gave in to his body's screaming demand to shut down, he heard the ringing end and his brother's frantic voice calling out his name.

_"Dean? Dean, where are you? Are you okay?"_

As the blackness engulfed him, Dean managed one last word. Relief and rescue in two syllables, he called out, "Sammmyyyy…."

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"Sam, I swear to all things holy if you look at that phone again I will take it away from you and throw it in the yard."

Sam put down his phone, pushing it away as he glanced up at Bobby. "Don't you think that's a little childish, Bobby?"

Bobby glared as he pointed his fork at Sam. "You think I won't do it?" There was a challenging tone to Bobby's voice as if he dared Sam to tell him otherwise.

Sam quickly ducked his head for nothing more than to get away from Bobby's penetrating glare. "No, I know you would do it."

"You're damn right I would." With that, the elder hunter shoved another bite of meat into his mouth.

Sam wished he could stop worrying about Dean but it was proving to be hard to do. No matter what the young hunter tried to tell himself, to convince himself Dean was okay, a million bad thoughts ran through his head. What if Dean got into trouble? What if he was hurt and couldn't get to his phone? What if Dean was…_dead_? As soon as the thought entered Sam's mind, he stubbornly pushed it away. He wouldn't believe Dean was dead, not even for one second, no matter how many times the thought popped into his head.

Picking up his own fork, Sam absently played with his food, but his mind stayed on Dean. He knew he never should have let Dean go back to New York alone to gather up the last load. He should have insisted going along with his brother, instead of agreeing to stay behind with Bobby. That's not saying Sam didn't put up an argument when Dean told him to stay back, because he did. But when you had both Dean and Bobby teaming up on you, it was difficult to get your way—even his patented so-called "puppy dog eyes" didn't work this time.

Bobby let out a loud sigh and put down his fork. Grabbing up his beer, he rose from the table and walked around to put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "I'm not about to sit here and watch you do this."

Sam looked up. "Do what?"

"Obsess over this. Your brother will call you as soon as he's able, so in the meantime eat somethin'. You're not gonna be any good to me tomorrow if you don't eat."

Sam reluctantly stabbed at a piece of meat and shoved it into his mouth. "Happy?"

Bobby grunted. "I swear, you're more like your brother every time I see you." With that, he turned from Sam and went into the living room.

After making sure he couldn't hear Bobby moving around anymore, Sam picked up his phone and began to scroll through the numbers once again.

"Sam, put that damn phone down!"

_What the hell…_Sam quickly put the phone down and picked up his fork, spearing a potato onto the utensil. As he was bringing it up to his mouth, his phone rang. He couldn't put down the fork quick enough as he made a frantic grab for his phone and glanced at the screen. _Dean!_

"Dean? Dean, where are you? Are you okay?" Sam couldn't keep the frantic, panicked tone out of his voice.

At first, Sam didn't think his brother heard him until he heard a faint voice that made his blood run cold. _"Sammmyyyy…."_

"Dean! Dean!? Dean, answer me!"

No answer.

"DEAN!"

The call ended as a dial tone met the young hunter's ears. Jumping up from his chair, Sam rushed into the living room, startling Bobby. "Bobby, I need your keys."

"What—Sam, what's going on? Was that Dean?"

Sam didn't answer him as he walked back into the guest room and began to pack his duffel. He didn't even look up at the sound of Bobby's booted feet coming to a stop in the doorway.

"Sam, what the hell is going on?"

Sam shoved a shirt into his bag and finally turned to look at Bobby. "I don't know—Dean, he only said my name and then the call got lost."

"Is he okay?"

"I don't know." Sam shoved past Bobby and went back into the kitchen to grab his jacket from the chair. Bobby didn't let up as he followed Sam.

"Did you try to call him back?"

"No, I'll call from the road."

"You don't even know where he is—you're going in blind."

"Look, I don't care, Bobby. I know where he told me he was headed, so I'll go there." Shrugging into his jacket, he held out his hand. "Can I have the keys or not?"

"No, Sam—I'm not about to let you drive over there by yourself. It's fifteen hours away and knowing you, you won't stop to take a break. You'll run yourself ragged and you'll be no good to your brother."

"Bobby, I have to get to him."

"Then I'll come with you."

Sam stubbornly shook his head. "Bobby, I need you to stay here and keep working on the Colt—the sooner you can get it finished, then the sooner we can use it to get Dean out of his deal."

"I still don't like you going after Dean alone, Sam. You're gonna get yourself killed."

"I'll be careful, Bobby. Please…let me do this. I'm begging you."

Bobby stared at him for a few moments and Sam could only imagine the thoughts running through the older man's head. Bobby was worried about them and the last thing he wanted was for the both of them to land in trouble and unable to do anything to help them. Bobby could fool anyone with his gruff appearance and demeanor, but under all that was a caring man who would do anything for him and Dean. Sam knew it and Bobby knew it, too.

Finally reaching into his pocket and pulling out the keys. Placing them in Sam's hand, he didn't relinquish his grip. "You'll call me every couple of hours and let me know what's going on." It wasn't a question.

"You have my word."

Releasing the keys, Bobby followed Sam to the door and walked with him to the truck. After Sam climbed into the driver's seat, Bobby leaned into the window. "You be careful, son. The last thing I need is for you to land in trouble, too. One of you boys is enough."

"I will, Bobby."

Bobby stepped back and patted the window frame. "You just make sure you bring your brother back—preferably, in one piece."

"Yes sir." Sam started the truck and with one last wave at Bobby began making his way towards Dean, with one thought replaying in his mind over and over.

_Please let Dean be okay…_


	3. There's Something Wrong With Our Eyes

**Thank you so much guys for the awesome reviews. Tree and I love seeing what you think about this and your words mean so much to us. We hope you enjoy this chapter and please let us know what you think!**

**Many thanks to Bayre for having our backs and being an awesome beta!**

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Something's Wrong With Our Eyes

The early morning sunshine bore through the frosted windshield casting prisms of light throughout the interior of the Impala. Dean cracked open one eye, then another, annoyed first by the chill that gnawed on his exposed skin and then by the kaleidoscope that bombarded his vision. He raised his hand to block the sunlight, squinting his eyes and silently wishing he hadn't drunk so much the night before and passed out in the car. Sammy was gonna be pissed and sure to give him a hard time about it. Lately, he'd been living it up, cramming as much into the time he had left; crossroads deal be damned, one year to live be damned, Dean Winchester be damned. So, it wasn't surprising to his fogged head he was waking up to one hell of a brain-pounding hangover or that he'd spent the night in the Impala rather than face the judgmental scowl of his baby brother.

Until he moved!

It only took the slightest shift of his lower body for pain to bring back total recall in all its Technicolor and sensory glory.

"DAMMIT!" he shouted, one fist slamming into the roof of the car as the other hand reached out to grab at his right leg which instantly came alive with a violent wave of agony sweeping up and over his entire body.

He tried to focus on the abuse he was doling out on the knuckles of his left hand, but the pain in his broken right leg and the accompanying bile rising in his throat was fast winning over. Desperate not to throw up in the Impala, even more determined not to be stuck in the car with a putrid mess, Dean quickly rolled down the driver's side window and let the mountain chilled air rush in.

He sucked in several deep breaths, closing his eyes, begging for his stomach to settle, praying to whoever would listen to make the pain subside even just a little. He listened to the echo of his heart pounding within his chest, tried to ignore his leg throbbing in time with it. He sighed deeply after a few minutes passed and it appeared his intestines were content to remain on the inside.

"Okay, that was close. Soooo not gonna do that again."

He chanced opening his eyes, squinting once more until they adjusted to the brightness and then regretting it again when he finally saw his surroundings. In the daylight, he could take in the narrow outcropping of ground where the Impala apparently came to rest after skidding off the highway, crashing through the barrier and off the edge of the mountain. Casting a quick glance over his shoulder and out the back window, he could just see the edge of the roadway and the ruptured guardrail a few feet above the rear of the Chevy. It had slowed enough to have kept it from launching out and over the cliff, thankfully coming to rest on the small ledge just below the highway. Surrounding the car were several larger boulders and Dean assumed it had been those rocks that had finally brought the Chevy to a life-saving halt.

As the rising sun melted the frost on the windshield, he saw the valley some two hundred feet below the rocky shelf. Vertigo threatening to overtake the relief he was even alive, Dean looked away. It was enough to know he'd survived the crash, he didn't need to know the details of how or why at the moment. Not to mention, he wasn't altogether comfortable with how well the car was situated on its mountaintop perch to begin with as he recalled the sudden lurch the Impala made the night before.

"Alright, so obviously getting out of the car and going for help is out of the question. Not that I could climb up those rocks if my life depended on it. But if I stay here, then I risk taking the long swan-dive over the edge," he mused. Just then, the Impala groaned, metal shifting against rock underneath the heavy car. Dean stiffened, eyes shifting rapidly as he tensed at the sudden noise. When the Chevy remained stationary, a nervous smile creased the hunter's face as he ran a forearm across his mouth.

"Aw, Baby, did you think I'd just let you go over the edge? Never! We'll just sit this out together till Sammy gets here. He'll get us out of this mess. Drag both our asses back up top. We just gotta hold tight, not move … you hear me, Baby, no sudden movements… and we'll both be just fine!"

Satisfied his beloved car, not to mention his beloved ass, wasn't about to plunge over the edge, Dean relaxed and considered his situation. While his right leg and head were still playing their own version of _Battle of the Bands_ via the painful throbbing raging through him, a quick exam revealed at least he wasn't bleeding freely any longer from either injury. Still, he needed to do something about his leg, if for no other reason than to prevent the broken bone ends from shifting and reopening the wound. And of course, there was the whole excruciating pain, make you wish you could gnaw off the limb, sell your soul to the devil to make it stop hurting, reason to fix the leg.

"Wait, I already sold my soul. Guess I better take care of it on my own then," Dean joked aloud.

Glancing around the interior for something to brace the fracture, Dean rifled through the remnants of the box that had spilled onto the passenger's side floor. His stomach growled angrily in response to spotting several of the scattered M&M's and for a moment he was tempted to toss them into his mouth, not one to be picky about where the candy had been. In the end, he simply gathered up a handful of the multicolored chocolate and stuffed them into the pocket of his jacket.

"Better ration the provisions; it's gonna be a while before Sammy finds his way here. If he can even find me. I better call him and tell him where I was when I went off the road, guide him in. Aw crap, the cell phone!"

Dean spotted the cellular right where it had dropped from his hand when he passed out last night. He briefly remembered making contact with his brother … good news, but then had left the phone on, draining the battery while he was out cold … bad news.

"Just friggin' great. Alright, no need to panic, just gotta get the car charger and hope like hell it charges the bitch up."

Biting his bottom lip as he stretched to reach the glove box, Dean managed to open it and pulled out the black cord. Plugging it into the bottom of the cell, then shoving the opposite end into the empty cigarette lighter, he watched anxiously as the screen flashed the little battery symbol indicating the phone was charging and powered for use.

Scrolling down, he found Sam's number and tapped the call button, waiting for his sibling's voice to answer on the other end. His brother's phone rang for several long seconds and Dean briefly panicked, thoughts of being stranded on the side of the mountain, bleeding to death, or worse yet, starving, filling his over active mind.

"_Dean!"_ Sam's anxious voice blared over the earpiece. _"Are you alright? I've been losing my freakin' mind all night. What happened to you? Are you okay, are you hurt?"_

_Way to go, Sammy, jump right in and bombard me with twenty questions, mother-hen version, _Dean thought to himself, his eyes rolling as he listened to his brother ramble on.

When Sam's onslaught of questions finally stopped, Dean took a deep breath and considered how much to tell his overly worrisome brother. Getting Sam's help was a necessity, but having him shower Dean with annoying questions was another. All his brother needed to know right now was how to get here. Knowing how bad Dean was hurt or that he and the Impala were hanging near the edge of cliff wasn't going to help Sam get here any faster.

"Sammy, I'm alright. Just had a little fender-bender," he explained calmly.

"_Fender bender. Yeah right! So why then did you pass out when you called on the phone last night? Where are you hurt, Dean? And don't bother wasting your time lying to me,"_ Sam barked back.

"Sam…"

_"DEAN…"_

"Okay, okay, I hit my head, no big deal, standard concussion," the older brother gave in.

"_And?"_

"And what?"

"_Where else are you hurt? Can you still drive?"_ Sam asked.

"Nothing else is hurt, Sammy. But no, I can't drive. The Impala's… uh… I can't get her started," Dean lied. _Now he's gonna wonder why I just don't walk for help._

"_Can you walk for help?"_ Sam suggested as though he still possessed some sort of psychic connection.

"Uh, no. I mean, I probably could, but I didn't pass anything close last night and dude, it's friggin' cold outside," Dean quickly covered. _And did I mention that there's a little problem with this bone that's half stickin' out the bottom of my friggin' leg right now? No, probably wouldn't do any good to mention that._

"_Yeah, don't do that, Dean. I think there's more bad weather heading your way. I've been driving through some rain and sleet mix since about midnight,"_ the young hunter advised. _"Stay warm, stay put in the car." _

_Hmm, stay put, like I have a choice?_

"Okay," Dean acquiesced, regretting it as Sam became suspiciously quiet on the other end. _He's not buying it. He knows I gave in too easy, he knows I wouldn't do that. _"Where are you now, Sam?" He asked, hoping to divert the conversation.

"_Uh, I-90 right now, almost to South Bend. I've been sticking to the interstate to make time and 'cause I figured the roads would be in better shape. When I couldn't get you back on the phone, I figured I'd cut over to I-80 then backtrack my way up to you."_

_Yeah, backtrack and rappel_. "Well, I'm not entirely sure where I am. I didn't see any mile markers, but I was on 219 and I think I remember some Podunk town called Brockway that was supposed to be up ahead. I'm not sure how far though," Dean answered.

"_Have you seen any other cars? Hasn't anyone else stopped to help?" _

_Well, there was this mountain goat… _

"No, haven't seen a soul. The roads are a mess. I don't think there are too many people living up this way, at least not ones that aren't related to the Benders." Dean quipped.

"_That's really not funny, Dean,"_ Sam chastised. _"Seriously, can you just do me favor, for once, please just wait for me to get there and don't do anything stupid."_

"I think I can manage that," the older brother agreed. _'Cause I have so many other options at this point. _"Just get here, okay?" _Yeah, cause that didn't sound too desperate_.

Dean waited for Sam's reassurance or his even his brother's usual irritating persistent concern to be verbalized again, but instead, the cellular remained silent. He called out to his brother, but even before he glanced at the screen, he knew the call had been dropped.

"Damn, Sammy must've hit a dead spot," he grumbled, strangely disappointed despite having to tolerate his brothers often exasperating worry, he'd lost the comforting connection of Sam's voice.

He closed the cell, leaving it connected to the charger before tossing it on the seat beside him. Dean looked at it for a long moment, deep down willing it to ring again, suddenly feeling very alone in the quiet car. He was tempted to call Sam back, but that would most certainly make his brother more suspicious to his situation.

A sharp spike of pain in his lower leg helped make the decision for him. Deciding there was no time like the present to deal with the injury, Dean twisted around in the seat to scrounge in the back, looking for anything that might be useful in splinting the broken bone. He regretted the contortion, the strain it put on his ribcage was instantly painful, but in comparison to everything else, he could tolerate it.

He spotted a small fleece blanket rolled in a ball on the back seat and just beyond it, his duffle was nearly within reach if he boosted himself up a little further. The blanket he could cut into strips with the Bowie in his bag if only he had something long and rigid to use as a splint.

Straining to look further, he spotted the curse box lying upside-down on the rear floor. The ornate case was on top of a couple of thick books and as his hand strained to peel the wreck-tossed items away, he brushed against a sheath of crossbow quarrels.

"Okay, I can work with that. Just gotta get to it."

Deciding to begin with retrieving the more easily reached items first, Dean pushed up against the cold leather to boost himself into position. Gingerly, he lifted his right leg slowly onto the seat beside him, his head swimming slightly between the spatial change and the coppery waft of blood that assailed him. Leaning back against the door, he closed his eyes and encouraged his body to come to some sort of agreement within itself.

When he opened his eyes again, the faintest hint of a figure seemed to hover in the backseat, watching him. Shaking his head, the blurred image disappeared, leaving nothing but the empty car and Dean's own groan lingering. He ignored the ghostly image, chalking it up to the glare of the sun off the ice still clinging to the Impala's windows.

Clenching his teeth and stretching over the seat, he grabbed the blanket then grunted through hefting his duffle up, over and into his lap. Exhausted by the effort, Dean forced himself to push on. Rummaging through his bag, he pulled out his trusted blade, still sheathed from the last time he'd slept in a bed and it had rested in its customary place beneath his pillow.

Pulling it from its holder, he laid it almost reverently in his lap, pushing his duffle out of the way before he went to work on the blanket. Delaying the inevitable need to reach for the crossbow bolts, he instead worked to cut the fleece into a half dozen long strips, saving larger pieces to use as bandages since the first aid kit was well out of reach within the trunk.

Laying out the strips and placing the knife within reach, Dean sucked in a deep breath and looked over the back seat at the remainder of his father's belongings that lay in a pile.

"Gotta do this," he said, hoping to convince himself.

His first attempt to grab for the sheath of quarrels ended in a scream of pain as the stretch over the seat pulled on ribs cracked from their impact against the steering wheel. Clutching his chest while he panted against the throbbing, Dean steadfastly made attempt number two, knowing full well the compound fracture in his leg was a more immediate threat than anything else.

Holding his breath and biting his bottom lip, Dean pushed himself up and partially over the seat to reach for the bolts. With the additional pressure on his leg, the pain was nearly unbearable, threatening to subdue him and tugging at the edges of his consciousness. He fought against it like he had so many times before, rechanneling the endorphins the pain released and continuing on his mission, frantically pushing aside the dust-laden curse box until he dislodged the case of crossbow ammunition. His hand wrapped around the leather strap at what felt like the last moment, yanking the sheath back over the seat as he collapsed back against the leather.

He felt the wetness even before he reopened his eyes from the pain. Even then, when he did, he knew that his supply gathering calisthenics had jostled the broken bone even before he spotted the growing patch of fresh red on the denim above his boot.

"Shitshitshitshitshit…" he groaned, one hand reaching down to press against the open wound. "Aghhh… dammit," he quickly added as the slightest touch on the wound set off another volley of torturous agony raging up from the extremity. Pa Bender and his red-hot poker didn't have anything on the current lava-like, flesh-consuming river of misery washing over Dean right now.

Breathing in gasps, his vision strangely darkening despite the brightness of the sunlight beaming into the car, Dean dug his fingernails into the flesh of his thigh, desperately trying to force himself to fight against the shock the blood loss and pain were creating. He leaned forward again, eyes struggling to guide hands that were shaking far too much to make anything more than a weak snatch at one of the squares of cut-up blanket.

"Stop the bleeding… realign the bones… splint them… be okay…" he ran through the familiar field medicine, recalling his dad's Marine Corp teaching despite the fog gathering at the corners of his mind.

He tried to rip open the leg of his jeans but couldn't find the strength to do it, opting instead to slide the edge of his trusted knife underneath and yanking it upward, silently hoping he didn't accidentally lay open the flesh on his calf.

"Yeah, just my friggin' luck, fix a broken bone, and amputate a leg…"

With the skin now exposed, Dean considered rolling down the window again as his stomach rolled violently in response to the sight. Under the pulse of thick red, a gleam of jagged white peeked out from the torn edge of his flesh not far above where his ankle would have been. His stomach flopped once more when he saw the gooey mass of congealed blood that saturated his sock and collected at the top of his boots.

For a second, he considered trying to remove the boot, then thought better of it, his dad's words echoing at the back of his head, reminding him the thick leather would help with splinting.

"No sense putting this off then…" Dean muttered, wiping a still-shaking hand across an all-too-dry mouth.

Leaning forward so he could hook the tip of his foot underneath the handle on the passenger's side door, Dean placed his good leg as a brace against the dash, silently apologizing to the Impala for the mistreatment. Then, with both hands clasped around his knee, he inhaled deeply and held the breath as he yanked up sharply away from the lower end of the injured leg.

There was the softest of "snaps", followed by a howl of pain unequaled by any Dean thought he'd ever let escape his mouth before. He tried to lift his head, gave up, tried to lift his hands to wipe the perspiration accumulating on his forehead and gave up on that too when even his arms suddenly felt as though they weighed as much as the mountain of rock surrounding him.

"Sorry Dad… know you'd be busting my ass right now… know I need to finish this… know I need to stay awake… just a little easier said than done…" he groaned, his head swimming as he stared up at the ceiling of the car.

As Dean's eyes flicked back and forth striving for focus, he locked on a set of red eyes set amid an ethereal white form quietly watching him again from the back seat. Devoid of emotion, the figure merely looked at Dean as though it was simply waiting.

Not trusting his eyes and not entirely caring, he mistook the apparition for just one more in a long line of Reapers.

"That didn't take long…well, take a number you bastard. Others before you have tried for my ass…and I got worse than you that have dibs on me right now…" he snarked, closing his eyes and letting the darkness steal away any further concern.

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"_Just get here, okay?"_

Sam growled in frustration as his cell phone chirped out three beeps, signaling his call had been lost. Pulling it away from his ear and daring to take his eyes off the road for a few seconds, he saw it indeed had been lost and there was currently no signal.

"Great…hit a friggin' dead spot. Reliable service, my ass." Throwing the phone on the passenger seat, Sam returned his attention to the road just in time to see he'd inadvertently crossed over into the next lane. A horn blared angrily and Sam held out a hand in apology as he merged back into his own lane. The irate driver sped by Sam, but not before giving him a wave of his own, minus four fingers.

"You have a great day, too, jerk wad," Sam muttered, his eyes slightly narrowing.

Sam knew he wasn't really mad at the driver—he was mad at himself. Ever since leaving Sioux City, he'd been beating himself up about letting Dean go back to Black Rock by himself. Sam knew he should have went, should have argued with Dean a little more in order to get his way, but he didn't and now Dean was crashed on the side of the road, injured.

Sam wasn't only mad at himself, though. No, some of his anger was channeled towards his older brother, as well. He could tell from the sound of Dean's voice he was injured more than he was letting on and it pissed Sam off. _Yet again another example of Dean trying to protect you from something, Sam…_

When was Dean going to realize he didn't always have to protect Sam? What was Sam going to have to do to convince his brother of this? Did Dean really think he was that fragile, he couldn't handle the truth? Sam was so tired of Dean trying to cover up everything with a smile and a sarcastic crack. Everything in the world of Dean Winchester was a punch line, and lately it seemed as if Dean was the only one who was laughing.

Sam's anger towards Dean quickly turned into fear and anxiousness. What if Sam was right and Dean was injured more than he was letting on. The younger man had been driving through some pretty nasty weather and it was headed in Dean's direction. What if Dean didn't have suitable protection against the cold? After all, he said the car wouldn't start so his most readily available heat source was gone. Sam couldn't remember if there were any blankets in the car with Dean, though there might have been a couple of cheap ones in the trunk they'd procured from motels. But would Dean get out and actually get them or would he try to brave it out?

"He'd brave it out, the dumbass…" Sam muttered as he spotted a gas station coming up. Looking at the gas gauge, he noticed the truck was on about a fourth of a tank. Figuring he might as well fill up now and grab a coffee in order to stay awake, he pulled off the interstate and towards Mickey's Quick-E Mart.

He made quick work of the gas and walked inside to pay for it. Grabbing the largest cup of coffee he could find and a honey bun—for the added sugar rush—he paid for his purchases and got back inside the truck. Just as he was pulling out, his cell phone rang. Hurriedly setting the cup into the cup holder, he reached for his phone, praying it was Dean. He tried to stifle his disappointment when he saw Bobby's number flashing across the screen.

"Bobby, hey."

"_Sam, where are you? Why the hell haven't you called me?"_

"You were being literal about the every two hours thing?" Sam looked both ways before pulling out onto the highway leading back towards the interstate.

"_You're damn right I was. I told you that is my truck you're in—I don't want to find it wrecked on the side of the road."_

"Your concern for me is overwhelming, Bobby," Sam muttered as he eased back onto the interstate.

"_Speaking of you, did you bother to stop off at a motel for the night?"_

Sam seriously considered lying to the mechanic, but really, what good what that do him but piss Bobby off? Sam would gladly take a demon over a pissed off Bobby any day of the week. "No, Bobby. I didn't have time to stop for the night. I have to get to Dean."

"_Dammit, Sam, I told you, you would be no good to your brother if you get yourself into a wreck and get yourself injured or killed." _Bobby sighed. _"I swear to God, one day you boys are gonna listen to me."_

"Well, it doesn't look like today is going to be the day, Bobby," Sam muttered.

"_Don't get cute with me, Sam. I can drop everything right now and be there before you even made it to Dean."_

Sam sighed, knowing Bobby would do just that. "I'm sorry, Bobby. I'm just a little frustrated right now and this weather isn't helping anything."

"_Have you talked to your brother?"_

"Yeah, I was talking to him before the call got dropped. He told me about where he was so I should be arriving there within the next several hours. He said he just had a little fender bender but I'm not buying it."

"_Yeah, I wouldn't either."_

"Are you getting anywhere with the Colt?"

"_Nah, it's still slow going, but I'm gonna keep at it."_

"Thanks, Bobby."

"_Don't mention it."_ Sam heard Bobby sigh on the other end. _"Just let me know when you get to Dean. I'm not goin' anywhere."_

"I will, Bobby." Sam hung up the phone and grabbed his coffee from the console. Taking a long sip, he let the hot liquid run its course down his throat, stimulating his sleep-fogged brain cells. The caffeine was doing its part to provide him with another adrenaline rush and he was grateful for it. He wouldn't go so far as to say he was a heavy coffee drinker like Dean, but Sam could say he saw why Dean chugged it down like it was liquid oxygen.

"Oh, crap! Dean!"

Quickly putting down the coffee, Sam once again grabbed up his phone and dialed Dean's number, keeping his eyes on the road at the same time. As the phone rang, Sam couldn't help but remember what Dean said before the phone cut out. _"Just get here, okay?"_

If Sam didn't know any better, he could have sworn he'd heard a hint of desperation in Dean's voice, which was odd for Dean. The older man rarely asked for help and Sam knew if Dean was doing that, it meant he was hurt more than he was letting on, which pissed Sam off even more.

"Dammit, Dean," Sam muttered as the phone went to voice mail. Not one to be easily deterred, Sam immediately dialed the number again and listened with bated breath as the other end continued to ring. This time though, Sam didn't hang up when the voice mail clicked on.

"Dean, it's me. I'm not sure what happened earlier, I guess I must have hit a dead spot or something. Why the hell aren't you answering your phone? I swear to God, if you are doing something stupid, I will kick your ass as soon as I get there—I don't care if you're hurt or not." Sam sighed. "Listen, just call me when you get this, okay? Please? I'll be there as soon as I can."

Hanging up the phone, Sam threw it on the seat beside him. Biting his bottom lip, Sam couldn't help the uneasiness boiling up in his chest. There was no reason Dean shouldn't be answering his phone, considering he just got off the phone with him not even twenty minutes ago. Sam truly hoped Dean wasn't going to try to take care of himself and injure himself further, that he was going to listen to Sam for once.

Then again, Sam knew that damn stubborn Winchester pride. His dad had been a master at it and Dean was perfecting the art on a daily basis. Dean was never one to accept help, even if it was from his own family.

Sam pressed down on the accelerator, a determined expression on his face. He needed to get to Dean before his brother did something to get himself killed. No way in hell was Sam going to let his brother die before his contract expired.

Sam wasn't going to let his brother die at all.


	4. I Don't Know What It Is

**Thanks again for all of the reviews, everyone! We really love hearing what you think about this and we are having such a blast writing it!**

**Many thanks goes out to our awesome beta, Bayre!**

**Oh, and we're ending on a cliffie, so adress your hate mail to Tree...she deserves some of the blame too!**

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Chapter 4 – I Don't Know What It Is…

Being injured sucked out loud, being injured _and_ cold sucked louder than country music in Dean's mind as he shivered against the chill permeating the car. Outside, the sun from earlier had been abducted behind the clouds as the front Sam had warned him about was now dumping another load of rainy mix on the mountainside. All in all, at least the dreariness of the weather matched his overall mood.

Exhausted from spending what remained of his energy on applying the splint to his leg, he wanted nothing more than to curl up, get warm and sleep. But he knew it was a mistake he couldn't afford. Sleep was the enemy right now. It was bad enough that he succumbed to passing out twice already and lucky actually, that he'd even managed to regain consciousness considering the blood loss and the other injuries he'd sustained. Still, the last thing Dean knew he needed was hypothermia on top of it all. He had to find a happy medium, at least till Sammy got there.

"Where the hell are you little brother?" he muttered, anxiously looking at his watch even though he knew Sam was still several hundred miles away.

He rubbed absentmindedly just above his knee, the sharp pain of his broken leg now mercifully reduced to a constant throb, but one he could tolerate so long as he didn't move or bump the makeshift splint. Pulling his jacket tighter around his chest, he thought about starting the Impala and turning on the heat, his hand even reaching toward the key dangling from the ignition. He stopped just before touching it, his mind considering whether there was any other damage to the Impala he might not know about. Surely the front end had taken a beating from hitting the mountainside, not to mention the guardrail. Then there was the possibility of damage to the undercarriage. Suspended by the sharp rocks, Dean had no idea what, if any, harm could have been done to the under side of the car.

"Hmm, a fuel line leak… one spark… that could ruin my day. Not to mention, I don't need to gas myself to death with carbon monoxide. Still, freezing my ass off isn't exactly the way I planned on checking out either," he mused.

Deciding to not tempt fate and considering his recent run of bad luck, Dean elected to forego any attempt to start the Chevy. Instead, he pulled his duffle bag back up from the floorboards and rummaged through the contents. He pulled out a couple of his Henleys, thought about layering them over top the shirts he already had on, but the effort of taking off his jacket just to add the shirts seemed not entirely worth the potential for resulting pain.

Rooting through the bag some more Dean's hands came in contact with softer feel of fleece. Tugging the piece of clothing out, he held it before him, over-sized brown material stretched from sleeve to sleeve. One of Sam's zippered hoodies had ended up in Dean's duffle, strange enough considering that under normal circumstances Dean rarely if ever wore any of his brother's clothes, even when all of his were dirty. But finding the thick hoodie now was nothing short of a godsend. He pulled the sweater closer to his chest, catching a brief whiff of Sam's aftershave still clinging to the fabric. Unzipping it, Dean opened it backwards and laid it across him like a small blanket, chuckling slightly.

As the warmth of the added layer enveloped his upper body, Dean loosed a contented sigh. "Okay, no more comments about your choice in clothing, Sasquatch. Or for that matter, maybe I'll even cut back on the Sasquatch comments too."

Closing his eyes as the first drops of sleet began to pelt the outer body of the car, Dean listened to the staccato beat play against the metal and tried not to think about his brother driving in the inclement weather. Sam had warned him about the front heading his way, even told him he'd been driving through it when their call had been cut off. Dean's eyes flew open, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest. _What if?_

He'd assumed the call had been dropped, Sam just hit some cellular dead spot. But what if? What if instead, rushing to get to Dean, Sam had gotten into a wreck? What if Sam was now lying on the side of some ice covered highway, bloody or worse? He hadn't called back. Wouldn't worry-wart Sammy have called back by now if it had only been a dropped call?

Dean lurched forward, his hand scrambling for the cell phone that laid on the dash still attached by its umbilical to the charger. He pulled it free and flipped it open, immediately relieved when he spotted the icon that showed a missed call and a new voicemail.

He skipped the missed call, knowing it was Sam and opted for listening to the voicemail instead, relief filling him once more when Sam's voice came across the receiver.

"_Dean, it's me. I'm not sure what happened earlier, I guess I must have hit a dead spot or something. Why the hell aren't you answering your phone? I swear to God, if you are doing something stupid, I will kick your ass as soon as I get there—I don't care if you're hurt or not." _Dean listened to Sam's long, drawn out sigh and could even picture his brother's brows creased together in his characteristic look of worry, before his voice continued. _"Listen, just call me when you get this, okay? Please? I'll be there as soon as I can." _

Dean erased the message then scrolled down to redial his brother. He was about to hit the "send" button when a whisper caught his attention.

"_Svaatanya_…"

He shivered uncontrollably, despite the added layer of Sam's fleece sweatshirt, looking around the confines of the classic car for the origin of the unfamiliar word. As before, it remained empty except for him.

"_Svaatanya_…"

"Okay, you're losing it for sure now, Winchester. Crap, maybe the concussion was worse than I thought. Yeah, that's it. First the Reaper, now I'm hearing shit?"

"_Svaatanya…"_

"Svetlana, Svetlana, alright already. What's with Svetlana?" Dean yelled, dropping the cell into his lap and pressing the base of both hands tightly against his ears in an effort to block out the annoying sound.

Waiting for a silent ten count, Dean tentatively lowered his hands, listening for the strange words. When nothing but the steady tapping of the sleet against the Impala greeted him, he lowered his hands the remainder of the way and looked around the interior nervously.

The old Chevy was the one place he'd always felt safe and secure. It was the closest thing to a steady home Dean had ever known, but suddenly now, he felt as though his 'home sweet home' had been compromised.

"Concussion! It's just the concussion. And blood loss… yeah that too. Got a bone stickin' out of your leg, you're bound to think you hear and see things that aren't there," he tried to convince himself. "Probably delusional from hunger. When did I eat last? Don't people get a little loopy when their blood sugar gets low?"

But deep down inside, all the medical rationale didn't completely set Dean at ease. He knew the head injury and compound fracture could certainly account for some of his mental status – or lack thereof – but at the end of the day, he was a hunter and he'd been hurt worse before. Deep down, Dean just_ knew_ he wasn't seeing or hearing things.

Snatching the cellular back up, he continued with his call back to his brother. Hitting the send button now, he held his breath, hoping Sam wasn't in the middle of nowhere again where cell service was considered luxury.

"_Dean! Oh thank God! Where the hell have you been?"_ Sam's voice bellowed out.

"Sorry dude, I musta just missed your last call."

"_Missed my call? How the hell, Dean? Where were you? Stuck in a board meeting or something, cause honestly, how the hell do you miss your cell phone ringing? You always have that phone on you."_

"I was taking a leak, Sam. Can't a guy have a little privacy?" Dean quickly covered.

"_Taking a leak, huh? For how long Dean? I called you back and left a voicemail nearly four hours ago. I've even tried you a couple of times since then. Where have you been?"_ Sam demanded his voice tinged with a mixture of anger and suspicion.

"Sam, seriously. I haven't gone anywhere. I've been in the car the whole time. I was charging my cell. I never heard the phone ring, maybe the battery was too dead." _Come on Sammy, buy that excuse, please! I don't need you pissed at me right now. _

"_You're so full of crap, Dean…"_ Sam muttered softly, but Dean heard him anyway.

"Sam, I swear to you. I'm not going anywhere. It's sleeting again here. The weather sucks, it's freezing cold and the sun will be going down before too long," he promised. "So, where are you now?"

There was a prolonged silence before Sam spoke again. _"I'm just an hour or so into Ohio now. It's been slow going 'cause of the weather, but I'm trying to get there, Dean."_

Dean could hear the worry in Sam's voice, knew his brother was franticly trying to get to him, having picked up his own desperation from their previous conversation. He wanted nothing more than to tell his brother everything was alright, but he knew his own voice would betray the lie.

"I know you are, Sammy. Just be careful, okay. I got enough to wor…."

"_Svaatanya…" _The mysterious whisper interrupted him mid-sentence, seeping from the back of the car on the tail of a sudden icy tendril that bit into Dean's exposed skin.

"What the hell…" Dean grumbled, his head shifting towards the rear seat as the whisper turned into a full-fledged moan.

"_Svaatanya…svaatanya… palaayana!"_

As Dean peered into the back of the car, vibrant red eyes set amid a ghostly white shell materialized in the corner of the back seat. He reared away instinctively, his back wedging against the steering wheel and the door frame in an effort to create as much distance between himself and whatever the thing was that had just appeared in the car.

"_Dean… DEAN? Answer me, dammit!" _Sam's voiced blared out.

"What the hell are you?" Dean demanded through teeth clenched against the pain of his sudden movement.

"_BubhukSaa…" _Red eyes widened and despite the transparency of the specter, Dean could see long fang-like teeth glimmering from its mouth when it spoke the strange words. "_Svaatanya_… _bubhukSaa_…"

"Well, Svetlana, hope you don't mind me calling you that, I don't know what the hell you're saying, but I'll make you a deal, you stay in the back seat and I'll stay in the front. How's that?" The wounded hunter jokingly offered.

"_Goddammit Dean, I can hear you talking. Who are you talking to? What the hell is going on?" _

"_BubhukSaa…" _Fangs bared even further as red eyes now narrowed, sizing up the warm-blooded prey mere feet away.

With a shaking hand, Dean slowly raised the cellular back to his ear, Sam's voice shouting in near panic. His eyes never leaving the thing in the back seat, Dean squeezed himself into the last millimeter of space available in the farthest point away from the creature.

"Sammy…" Dean's voice broke through his brother's tirade, silencing the younger man's on-going rant.

"_Dean, what the hell? Is someone there? Did someone stop to help you?"_

"Not exactly. How far away did you say you were again?" Dean asked as his free hand slowly closed around the hilt of his Bowie.

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Sam felt as if someone sucker punched him in the gut. He didn't miss the slight fear in his brother's voice even though he knew Dean was trying to mask it. "Dean, what the hell does that mean? Are you in trouble?" Sam's hand clenched tighter onto his phone, so much so he was afraid the cell would shatter in his hand.

"_I'm not sure…"_

"Dean, would you stop talking in riddles and tell me what is going on?" Sam slammed on his brakes as a motorist suddenly cut him off. "Shit!"

"_What? Sam, are you okay? What happened?"_ Dean's voice seemed to lose all fear as he switched to automatic protective mode. _"Sammy, answer me!"_

Sam took a deep breath to calm his jittery nerves. "I'm fine, Dean. Some jackass just cut me off on the interstate."

"_Are you sure?"_

The young hunter rolled his eyes as he realized what Dean was trying to do. He was diverting the attention from himself, and instead focusing on Sam which was the last thing Sam wanted him to do. He needed to know what was going on with Dean because there was no denying the fear in Dean's voice before. "Dean, quit trying to change the subject and answer me—is there something out there with you?"

"_I don't know what it is, Sammy. Hell, it may just be my imagination playing with…" _Dean's voice abruptly cut off.

"Dean!" Sam once again felt the fear grip him, like an ice cube running down his back. He took the phone from his ear to see if he still had a signal and let out a sigh of relief when he saw it was strong. But the fear's grip only tightened when he began to wonder if Dean actually was hurt more than he was letting on. Leave it to Dean to be hemorrhaging from some massive wound, all the while lying to Sam about it. Damn jackass was probably passed out, unconscious from blood loss and dying, just to be stubborn and spite him. "Dean, will you answer me, dammit!"

"_It's gone…"_ Dean's voice seemed to hold a trace of bewilderment.

Relief washed over Sam as he heard his older sibling's voice. Dean wasn't dead—he was still alive, but it still didn't allay his fears of Dean being seriously injured. "What's gone? Dean, what are you talking about?"

"_Whatever was in here with me—it's not here anymore."_

"What was it?"

"_It almost looked like a spirit…had these red eyes and kept saying something to me."_

"What did it say?"

"_I don't know…Svetlana, or something like that."_

Sam's brows creased together, first in frustration then in annoyance. "Svetlana? That sounds like some Russian chick you found at a local bar, Dean."

"_Believe me, Sammy, I would take the Russian chick right about now."_

Sam was about to answer when his phone beeped, signaling another call. Glancing at the screen, he saw that is was Bobby and his frustration level only rose. "Dean, hold on a sec—Bobby's beeping in."

"_Hurry up."_

"Bite me." Switching over, Sam didn't even give Bobby time to say anything. "I'm fine, Bobby. I just got into Ohio."

"_Have you talked to Dean?"_

"Yeah, actually I have him on the other line, so let me call you back."

"_Is he okay?"_

"I don't know, Bobby." Sam rotated his neck until he heard a few satisfying pops. "He keeps telling me he's seeing something, but I think he may be hurt. I think I was right before when I said he was hiding something from me."

"_What is he telling you?"_

"He says there's something in the car with him, some spirit or something." Sam shrugged though he knew the burly hunter couldn't see him. "He said it had bright red eyes and it kept saying something to him."

"_What is it saying?"_

"Svetlana." Sam chuckled.

"_Svetlana?"_

"Yeah, see what I mean—Dean's talking about Russian women while I'm risking my neck trying to get to him as fast as I can. I know he's trying not to worry me, Bobby, but I just wish he'd quit jerking me around."

"_Sam."_

Sam went on as if he didn't hear him. "I mean, he's always trying to shield me from everything, but if he won't stop and let me help him, what good is it gonna do? What am I supposed to do if I can't get to him in time, Bobby?"

"_Sam."_

"I just wish he'd quit putting up his stupid ass walls and ask for help every now and then? Is it really such a bad thing to ask for help? Need someone?"

"_SAM!"_

Sam recoiled in shock from the gruff, loud voice. "What?"

"_What did Dean get from your dad's storage locker?"_

"Just a few odds and ends, I think. Why?"

"_Make sure—ask him."_

"Hold on just a sec." Sam clicked over to the other line. "Dean?"

"_What the hell, Sammy? Can't you call Bobby back later and discuss whatever the hell it is you're talking about? Battery only lasts for so long, dude."_

"Dean, just shut up and listen to me. What did you get from Dad's locker?"

"_What? What the hell does that have to do with anything?"_

Sam felt his patience ebb away. "Just answer the question, Dean."

"_There were a few weapons, some things of Dad's, and that last curse box."_

"Hold on."

"_Sammy—"_

Sam ignored him as he went back over to Bobby. "Dean said he grabbed a few weapons, some of Dad's personal things, and a curse box we'd forgotten when we grabbed all the others."

"_Shit."_

Sam was seriously considering giving the fear that insisted on creeping up a permanent residency in his gut. "Bobby, what's going on? You think something _is _in the car with Dean?"

"_Sam, you pray?"_

"Yeah, why?"

"_You better start praying to all things holy that box didn't come open."_

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**Translations will be revealed soon...**


	5. And God Knows It Ain't His

**Hi, everyone!**

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Sam felt as if the air was pushed out of his lungs and there was no hope for another breath. It was like a steamroller mowed him down, cutting off the vital air he needed in order to survive as Bobby's words played over and over in his head. _"You better start praying to all things holy that box didn't come open."_

"_Sam, you still with me?"_ There was a slight tinge of worry to the grizzled hunter's voice.

"Bobby, let me call you back. I need to pull off the interstate."

"_Call me as soon as you do."_

Sam hung up the phone, and after driving for a couple more miles he flashed his right turn signal and eased off the interstate, pulling into a rest stop. There were very few cars in the lot and the younger hunter was grateful for it. He needed the quiet in order to get his thoughts straight. Everything threatened to overwhelm him and he just didn't know which direction to go in.

His silence was short-lived as his cell phone chirped. Glancing at the screen he saw it was Dean and alarm bells immediately went off in his head. _Great…something else to compete with everything currently waging a war up there…_

"Dean, are you okay?"

"_Sam, what the hell are you doing hanging up on me?"_

Sam rubbed a hand over his face. "Sorry, I must have lost the call. I was about to call you back."

"_What did Bobby say? Why did you need to know what I picked up?"_

Sam didn't want to tell Dean what Bobby had just said. He still needed to talk to the salvage yard owner, to find out more about what Dean was dealing with before he alarmed his brother even farther. He just wasn't willing to risk that. "He was just curious, Dean."

"_You're not telling me something, Sammy."_

Sam cringed. He should have known Dean would catch that—his brother had an annoying habit of knowing when Sam wasn't telling him everything. "Listen Dean, I'm gonna have to call you back in a few minutes."

"_No, Sammy—don't you dare hang up on me!"_

Sam did precisely that, cutting Dean off before he could begin to issue threats. He didn't have time to deal with them he needed to get Bobby back on the phone and get some answers—fast.

Bobby answered on the first ring. _"You okay, Sam?"_

"Yeah, Bobby. Now, tell me what you meant by your praying comment. What's in the curse box?"

"_It's not anything good, Sam." _He heard Bobby exhale a deep breath and imagined the bearded hunter removing his cap and rubbing at his forehead. _"It's called a Pishacha."_

Sam frowned. "Pishacha? What the hell is a Pishacha?"

"_A very nasty SOB. It's a Hindu flesh-eating demon that haunts cemeteries. It can turn invisible, but can also possess people on a whim. It thrives on driving its victims insane before consuming them—it wants to leave them defenseless."_

"Why haven't I heard of this thing before?"

"_To be honest, there's really not a lot of lore on it. The only reason I know this much about it is because of your daddy."_

"How did Dad get a hold of it?"

"_About two or three years ago it was wreaking havoc on a small town in Nebraska. He went over to investigate and called me down to help because it was just impossible for him to handle by himself. The thing kept turning invisible and when it got bored with that, it jumped from person to person. By the time I got there, it'd worked your daddy over pretty well. He managed to get control of it—I don't know how and he never said..."_

"That doesn't really help me now, Bobby. That _thing_ is in there with Dean."

"_Look, Sam, I'll go through some books here and see if I can find anything."_

"Maybe Dad put something about it in the journal."

"_I don't know, Sam. Putting that thing in the box was John's way of getting rid of it. He may not have thought he'd need it for future reference. Hell, he may have just forgotten to put it in there."_

The young hunter reached down to the floorboard for his duffle before remembering he no longer had the journal. "Dammit, the journal's with Dean!"

Sam brought a hand up to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. Just once Sam wished good fortune could be on their side and help them. God knew they did enough for the good guys, couldn't they get something good in return for once?

"What do I do about Dean? What can he do until I get there?"

"_The best thing for him is to get his ass out of the car and somewhere safe. He can't go up against this thing, Sam, not alone."_

"Why the hell was this thing put in a curse box in the first place? Why didn't you and dad just kill it? It would be saving me a hell of a headache right now."

"_I'll be honest with you, Sam—we couldn't find a way to kill it for sure. Hell, I don't know if there even is a way to kill it."_

"Son of a bitch!"

"_Look Sam, I'll look around my books and see if I can find some information. Just hang in there, okay? You can't afford to lose your head right now."_

"All right, call me back as soon as you know something."

"_You be careful, Sam."_

Sam hung up the phone and hit the steering wheel in frustration. He didn't like the thought of Dean being alone against some demon they had no idea how to kill. He also didn't like the idea he was still hundreds of miles away from his brother. He'd give anything to be in the car with Dean right now—at least then he could help Dean and keep an eye on him.

Sitting back in the seat, he dialed Dean's number, bracing himself against the onslaught of anger he knew was coming his way.

"_Sam, what the hell were you thinking about hanging up on me? I swear to God, I am so ready to kick your ass! I'm out here freezing my ass off and you hang up on me? It better have been for something important!"_

"Dean, just shut up and listen to me!" Sam didn't mean to snap at his brother, but he was frustrated and tired, running on nothing more than the last fumes of coffee from a few hours ago and adrenaline.

"_What?"_ Dean's voice was barely above a growl.

_Yep, way to go Sam…piss Dean off as much as you can while he's in trouble. _"I think you're in a lot more trouble than we thought, Dean. You need to get out of the car right now and get somewhere safe."

"_What? Why?"_

"Come on, Dean—just don't argue with me, okay? Get out of the damn car now!"

"_I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell is going on!"_

Sam sighed. "Bobby thinks a demon might be out there with you, so get out of the car and get somewhere until I get there."

Dean was silent for a few moments before he slowly said, _"I think that may be a problem, Sammy…"_

SNSNSNSNSNSN

Dean could hear Sam's audible gulp of air as the younger Winchester absorbed his words. He'd been dreading this moment, hoping to prolong the inevitable, hoping to even keep Sam from finding out the true extent of his injuries and the precarious nature of his situation until he got there. But there was no way to hide it any more. No way to convince his brother he was getting out of the Impala and to some semblance of safety when not only couldn't he move more than a inch with his broken leg, but even if he managed to drag himself out of the car, there was no way he was climbing up the side of the cliff without help.

"_Dean, what haven't you told me?" _Sam's voice was tinged with hesitation.

The elder brother took a deep breath, his free hand unconsciously moving down toward his injured leg, gently rubbing back and forth just above his knee. He cleared his throat, trying to decide exactly where to begin and silently wondering why it was so difficult to tell Sam. In the end, it was Sam's irritation and anger that finally drove the words from him.

"_Dammit, Dean, just cut the bullshit and tell me where you're hurt,"_ Sam demanded, his voice now holding no trace of tremor or weakness.

_Okay, so little brother figured it out, huh?_ "I broke my leg, Sammy," Dean blurted out.

There was another moment of silence over the cell phone and in his mind's eye, Dean could picture Sam chewing his bottom lip as he acknowledged the admission.

"_How bad is it, Dean? Can you still walk on it or are we talking bones sticking out?"_

"I've had worse…" Dean began.

_"Okay, so we're talking compound fracture then,"_ Sam interjected. _"Have you stopped the bleeding, got it splinted? Is that why you didn't call me back earlier? I knew you were lying to me, you stubborn jackass."_

"Sam, I would have told you, but I ..."

"_Save it, Dean. It's always the same crap. How bad is it? And don't leave anything out, 'cause I'm telling you, I'll damn well break your other leg when I get there if you lie to me one more time." _

"Alright, alright, just relax, Sam. Don't get your tighty-whities bunched up…"

"_Stop it, Dean. I'm tired and I'm not in the mood and I'm trying my damndest to save your ass here. Can you please just work with me, just once?" _

Dean considered pushing Sam more, but the weariness in his brother's tone and the pleading in the request were more compelling than his normal penchant for tormenting his younger sibling. Besides, right now, he really did have bigger issues than pushing Sam's buttons.

"Sammy, look, I'm sorry bro, I am. I know you're just trying to help and I never meant to… well… I know you're busting your ass to get here. I just didn't want to make you worry more when there was nothing you could do about it," he offered. "Okay, honestly, it's my right leg and yeah, I've got it pretty well taken care of, but no, dude, I don't think I'm gonna be getting around on it very far."

"_What else, Dean?"_ Sam asked, his voice still hedged with wariness.

The hunter sighed audibly before running down the catalog of injuries both major and minor. When he finished, Sam mimicked the huff of air and Dean was fairly certain he could hear his brother's fist slamming into the steering wheel of whatever vehicle he was driving.

"_Dean, there's gotta be a way to get you out of the Impala. You can't stay in there."_

"Whoa, back up here a second, Sammy. What the hell did Bobby tell you exactly? What is this thing? 'Cause if it's a demon, just getting out of the car isn't gonna help me much. The damn thing will just chase me down if it wants me that bad. I need some way to keep the damn thing off me. Or better still, I need a way to put it down permanently."

"_Bobby says it's something called a Pishacha, some Hindu flesh-eating demon, and that it nearly killed Dad when he went after it the first time. Dad couldn't destroy it so that's why he sealed it in the box. Bobby's checking to see what he can find out, but Dean, this thing isn't something to be screwing around with,"_ Sam explained.

"Yeah, but it hasn't done anything yet but sit and groan at me. Maybe it's been locked up too long, maybe its too weak or something. Maybe Dad put a binding on it before he sealed it up," Dean offered back.

"_Humor me, Dean. If the thing __**is**__ weak right now, then all the more reason to try to get you as far as possible away from the damn thing while we can. Can you at least get out of the car and make it to the trunk? Maybe you can get to some weapons, holy water, something? I'm probably still five hours or so away, but at least you'd have some protection till I got there."_

"I dunno, Sam. I don't think so…" Dean began. He wasn't about to tell his brother that in addition to his broken leg and the now-released demon, that his cherished Impala was hanging precariously on the edge of the mountainside.

Dean waited for his brother's response and was surprised again when Sam didn't relent on him about getting away from the wrecked Chevy.

_"Come on, Dean. Don't puss out on me. I've seen you walk on a busted up leg before. How 'bout that time Dad took us with him to hunt those two spirits in the Ozarks. You walked on that broken leg for two days before we got out of the woods and back to civilization. I know this is worse, but…"_

"Sammy, that was different, I didn't know my leg was broken. Besides, someone had to carry Dad out and since you decided to let that damn spirit dislocate your shoulder, one of us had to take care of business," Dean refuted. "Look, you wanted the truth and the truth is that I can't walk on my leg. First you chew my ass out when I don't tell you I'm hurt and now when I tell you how bad it is, you're still busting my balls. Give me a break, dude! Its not like I enjoy sitting here feelin' like someone is using a chainsaw on my leg."

Dean listened to the deafening silence, feeling only the slightest amount of guilt knowing he was playing on Sam's emotions. He knew full well he was doling out just enough information to appease his younger brother and that once Sam got there and saw the full extent of his predicament there would be hell to pay. But, what Sam didn't know, and couldn't do anything about right now, wouldn't hurt him. At least that's what Dean rationalized. Sam's long sigh across the cellular let Dean know he'd won this round, at least for now.

"_Any chance you have your flask on you? At least that might be some protection for a while. Bobby's checking all his sources, maybe he'll come up with something that will help,"_ Sam acquiesced.

"It's in my gear bag. I can get to it. Do you even know if holy water has any effect on this thing?"

"_I dunno. Even Bobby said he didn't know much about the damn thing other than it was one tough bastard. Seriously, Dean, Dad put that thing in that box 'cause he had no other choice and it's out now. And you're hurt and trapped with it, served up like a damn…"_

"Cut it out, Sammy. How 'bout we don't serve me up like anything just yet, okay? I haven't seen good ole Svetlana for a while now. Wherever it is or has gone, it hasn't made any move on me. Maybe it really has just been cooped up in that box too long. Maybe we're just worrying for nothing. Besides, five hours is nothing. I can hold my own for five hours, no sweat," Dean insisted, forcing confidence into his voice.

"_Dean, I… please, just promise me, do whatever you have to and get away from the damn thing if it comes down to it,"_ Sam begged. _"I just have a bad feeling about this one."_

Dean cut off the sarcastic reply, despite being tempted to tell his younger brother that in general, Sam had a "bad feeling" about nearly everything lately. He had to admit though, this was probably one of those instances where his little brother might be right, that or Sam's intuition was rubbing off on Dean. Regardless, Dean wasn't about to add to Sam's worries by allowing his brother even one more glimpse of weakness on his part.

"Dude, just chill. I got this pistachio thing under control. I'll be fine. I've dealt with worse and yeah, before you go getting all emo on me, I promise I'll drag my ass out of the car somehow if things get bad. Cross my heart and hope to die," Dean promised.

"_Bad choice of words, Dean…"_

"You know what I mean." Dean replied, then for effect he quickly added "Bitch!"

" _I'm not saying it… you're not getting me to make light of this whole situation, Dean,"_

"Aw, come on, Sammy. You know you want too," Dean teased.

"_No Dean, it's not funny…"_

"Saaam- saaaayy iittt…"

"_NO!"_

"Come on, you can do, it's screaming to get out. Just give in to it," Dean taunted.

"_You're a jackass, Dean. You know that? I'm driving through shit weather, killing myself to get to you, worried about saving your ass from some cannibalistic demon. Can't you ever take anything serious? You're hurt, can't even move, probably lying to me even about how bad you've been injured and you don't even seem to give a damn about that. I don't even know why I waste my time worrying about you when you don't seem to care anymore,"_ Sam rattled off, his voice filled with exasperation.

Dean remained quiet for a second, knowing he'd once again pushed his brother too far. Still, it just wasn't in his nature to sit around and cry about his situation.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I was being a jerk wasn't I?" he admitted solemnly.

"_Yeah, you are,"_ Sam agreed readily.

"Huh? What was that, Sam? You cut out for a second."

"_I said, yeah you are_," Sam repeated.

"I am what?"

"_You're a JERK!"_ Sam shouted in frustration.

Dean's laughter filled both the cell phone and the interior of the Impala as he relished the small victory. He could hear his brother's grumble over the phone followed soon after by a half-hearted chuckle.

"Alright, seriously Sam, I really will watch out for the Pishacha and I'll call you if it makes another appearance. I'm gonna dig out my flask and see if there's anything else useful I can reach here in the car. You'll call me if you hear back from Bobby?"

"_You know I will, Dean. I'm gonna pull off here in a minute, fuel up the truck and grab something to drink. I should be back on the road again in twenty minutes. I'll give you a call once I'm underway again,"_ Sam informed.

"Okay, dude, have a hot cup of coffee for me too. And Sam,"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"Thanks, dude. I know you're trying…"

"_Just watch your ass, Dean. This Svetlana ain't nobody you want to spend quality time with in the back seat,"_ Sam teased, trying to match his brother's light-heartedness.

"I think I got that, bro," Dean answered, stealing a nervous glance into the rear of the Impala as he reluctantly pushed the button on the cell phone ending the call.

As the silence of the car settled over him once more, the safety and self-assurance Dean had felt while talking with Sam melted away as the coldness of the interior nagged for at his attention. It wasn't as though he needed the security of his brother's voice; he'd spent plenty of time alone on the road over the years. But somehow, just now, stuck on the side of a mountain with a demon in his car, his sanctuary of sorts, chewed away at his so carefully crafted stalwart exterior leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable. He hated that feeling; a weakness just as tangible as any physical ailment ever was, even more so in Dean's mind.

He shivered violently, muscles twitching in full-body concert, and tried to convince himself it was only a response to the temperature. Pushing back the sleeve on his left arm, he looked at the time on his watch.

"Five hours! I can do five hours. Piece of cake." But even as he spoke the words, he was already reaching for the duffle on the floorboards, pulling it up and reaching inside, his hands frantically seeking out the small silver flask that contained the precious liquid. His hand closed on the metal container and he drew it out, pulling it up close to his chest protectively.

Dean closed his eyes, curious that his heart was pounding against his ribcage. He hated this feeling; trapped, helpless, insecure. Even worse was being essentially weaponless and in the dark about the demon.

His eyes shot open and Dean lurched forward, his free hand stretching for his gear bag once more. He yanked it back onto his lap, stifling the groan behind his teeth when the bag sent a jostling wave down his injured leg.

He let the silver flask slide off to the side as he rummaged through the duffle, pulling clothing and even his shaving kit out and casting those articles off to the side in his quest for one particular item.

It took just a second longer when Dean finally came to the thing he was looking for. Sighing audibly, he sank back against the driver's side door, a feeling of relief washing over him as he held the leather journal in his hands.

"I sure hope you have some words of wisdom in here about this thing, Dad. 'Cause I sure could use a little help," he muttered, flipping open the cover.

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Dean opened the diary and stared at the first page. He'd read every page of this book at one time or another but couldn't claim to have committed the entire thing to memory. Admittedly, since his father's death, he'd been disinclined to even touch it, even seeing the familiar handwriting brought back memories that opened a wound like a massive knife in his heart. But since seeing his dad climb out of the very pits of Hell and come to his rescue yet again and help destroy their life-long nemesis, somehow had softened the loss.

Still, dead and gone was dead and gone and looking at the journal was a constant reminder that his dad was not here because of him, just like he would soon be gone himself.

"Yeah, but not now, and not courtesy of some damn demon in my own damn car," he refused stubbornly.

Thumbing through the pages, Dean skimmed past references to everything from reapers to skinwalkers. He came across a brief paragraph about a rabbit's foot and chuckled openly.

_--- Managed to get the foot away from the family before it caused any more harm. Couldn't find a way to break its curse before it was too late for the uncle. At least it will be locked up safe where no one can touch it. ----_

"Yeah, that's what you thought, Dad. But then, I 'spose you never counted on needing a rat trap to keep the likes of Bela Talbot out of it," Dean mused. "Course, maybe if you would have trusted your own flesh and blood with your little secrets, maybe we wouldn't have ever gotten into this mess."

He turned several more pages, casually scanning each as he flipped past them. Notation on every imaginable creature, spirit and demon filled the sheets, but Dean saw nothing that specifically mentioned the Pishacha.

"Did you even know what the hell the thing was, Dad?" he mumbled as he flipped another page. "Of course you did. You wouldn't have gone into a hunt without intel. You were never _that_ careless."

Deft fingers flipped over more pages as he tried to focus on the writing before him. Fatigued eyes burned and blurred, and Dean was just about ready to give in when he caught a glimpse of the word "pishacha" scrawled midway across the yellowed sheet. He ran his finger down the page, stopping as he read his father's comment.

…_Reminded of the unnamed demon in the Testament of Solomon, who creeps "beside the men who pass along among the tombs, and in untimely season, I assume the form of the dead, and if I catch any one, I at once destroy him with my sword. But if I cannot destroy him, I cause him to be possessed with a demon." …_

Dean turned the page over and back again, a disgusted grunt escaping his lips as he sought more of his dad's writing.

"Oh just friggin' great. This is what you leave me with? How about, here's what the thing is, or how it attacks, what it hunts. Oh and God forbid, would it have killed you to have mentioned how the hell you caught the damn thing? Maybe how you fought it? A couple tricks of the trade?"

Dejected and with no more information on the thing that had been contained in the now-opened curse box, Dean slammed closed the journal and was about to toss it back into the duffle.

"_Svaatanya…"_

Dropping the leather book into his lap, Dean's right hand immediately closed on the silver flask while his left sought out the familiar solidness of the Bowie. Instinctively, he shifted further back against the door as he reacted to the hissed out word, his eyes darting to the back seat as the ghostly white shadow of the demon appeared once again.

"_Svaatanya…__ palaayana_." It spoke directly at Dean, red eyes capturing his hazel in a piercing predatory stare.

Dean stealthily began to twist off the cap to the flask with his thumb, his other hand more tightly gripping the hilt of the blade. He tried to ignore the slight tremor in his arms, electing to blame it more on the cold in the car than admitting any fear.

"_Svaatanya…__ palaayana." _

"This is getting kinda boring, Svetlana. Don't you know any new words?" Dean snarked, silently flipping the cap off. "I mean, we got five hours together, we need to find something more interesting to talk about."

"_BubhukSaa…"_

Long fangs dropped from behind lips that became more solid as Dean watched. He recoiled slightly as the demon gained corporeal form, its body filling out with a tangible mass. It raised one arm slowly towards the young hunter, a clawed fingertip pointing at his chest.

"_BubhukSaa,"_ it repeated, saliva dripping from it's fangs as it leaned forward toward the front seat.

His heart racing, Dean lifted the flask and with a determined flick of his wrist he splashed holy water across the closing creature.

"I told you, you stay in the back seat, I get the front…" he sneered as the demon retracted with a screech and the hiss of the sacred liquid as it struck flesh that was quickly dissolving back into it's prior ethereal form.

Dean watched the demon fade back into nothingness again, holding his breath as he waited for the last vaporous tendril to disappear from the rear of the Impala. When the Pishacha was gone once more, he exhaled loudly and closed his eyes, sagging back against the door, unmindful of the handle digging into his spine.

He sat there listening to the wind howl outside the Chevy while the wild thrum of his heart pounded within his ears. Wanting nothing more than to grab for the cell phone and hit the speed dial to his brother, needing to hear Sam's voice to calm his frazzled nerves, the only thing stopping him was the lack of a third hand. But since he wasn't about to relinquish his grip on either the knife or the flask, reaching for the cellular was currently out of the question. Not to mention, he wasn't about to admit that he was going to run to his little brother just because some demon pointed a finger at him.

Dean laughed, shaking his head and silently chiding himself for the momentary slip. He sucked in a couple of deep breaths, willed his heart to slow and glanced down at the watch on his wrist.

"Four and a half hours to go," he observed, turning to look out the window as the soft pelting of snowy mix began to fall yet again.

The icy chill that engulfed him would have been warning enough, eating into his skin despite the added clothing and the leftover fleece blanket. Dean didn't even bother to pull the coverings up closer, his gut immediately causing him to react defensively even before the words struck his ears.

"_BubhukSaa… pratikaara…niryaaNa_…" (hungry… revenge… death…)

Dean lifted the flask, his arm pulled back in preparation to fling the contents at the demon that loomed just a few feet from him. Red eyes glaring, fangs fully bared, it reached out towards him, seemingly unthreatened by its previous encounter with the holy water.

"Sonofabitch…" Dean snarled as the creature launched over the top of the seat towards him.


	6. Again and Again and Again

**Look, we're back with a brand new update! So sorry about the lack, guys, but Tree and I have been working with the VS and it's pushed this to the backburner for a while. I'm not going to promise you when the next update it, all I can do is ask that you be patient with us and know we'll get one up as soon as we can!**

**Thanks so much for letting us know what you think of the story so far and we look forward to hearing from you again! Any mistakes on this chapter is our own, so we apologize!**

**Now, let's go see how those boys are doing...**

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**Chapter Six**

**Again & again& again & again & again…**

Bobby Singer rubbed a hand over his tired face as he closed up _Pseudomonarchia Daemonum_, a book on demons by Johann Weyer. He'd been searching the ancient tome for the last hour or so, hoping he could find something on the Pishacha to help Sam and Dean, but so far he'd come up with nil. He didn't understand why there was next to nothing to be found on the ancient Hindu demon. Sure there were some basic facts about it, but it was everything he'd already told Sam—it was a flesh-eater, it drove its victims insane, haunted cremation grounds, and could possess people. He needed something more though, namely how to kill the son of a bitch, or at least weaken it enough where they could get it back in the curse box.

Pushing up from his desk, the hunter/mechanic walked over to one of the boxes from John's storage locker. He'd already exhausted all of his research materials, so it couldn't hurt to see what the deceased hunter had in his inventory. The truth of the matter was if John wasn't dead already, Bobby could throttle the man for keeping all of this locked up. It was items they could have used but then again that went both ways as seeing Bobby knew all of this stuff existed in the first place. If anyone should have known of its existence, it should have been Sam and Dean—they were the ones who needed all this. It seemed as if the entire world was up against those boys nowadays.

Bobby had to admit he was worried about the Winchester boys. They had always been something of a family to him, but within the last few months the older man couldn't help but notice how much they really meant to him, what he was willing to do for them. Sam and Dean were his boys, plain and simple—they always were. They may have had John's genes, but Bobby would be damned if he didn't consider them his flesh and blood as well. Though he would never say it out loud, he needed them as much as they needed him, probably more so on his part. He would fight tooth and nail for them; sacrifice everything if it meant keeping them safe.

It's why he needed to find something to help Sam get Dean out of his current predicament. Sam had enough on his shoulders as it was and Bobby didn't know if Sam could handle his brother being taken from him earlier than he was supposed to. Scratch that—Bobby _knew_ Sam couldn't handle it. Hell, the kid was having a hard enough time with Dean's deal, living with the knowledge his brother gave up his soul for him. Bobby could see the way it ate at Sam, the guilt and the pain. If there was anything to know about Sam Winchester it was the boy somehow managed to convince himself he was guilty of every single bad thing that happened to their family. It wasn't going to happen this time though; Bobby wouldn't let Sam shoulder the guilt for letting Dean go off to New York on his own and not being there when Dean got hurt. He had to find something for them if for no other reason to relieve Sam of some of that guilt.

Opening up the first box, Bobby reached in and pulled out a few of the books nestled inside. It wouldn't take long to browse through them to see if anything about the Pishacha existed—it was knowing where to look and Bobby knew exactly that. After all, he didn't get to where he was today without knowing a thing or two about research. Hell, on any day of the week he was sure he could give Sam a run for his money in the research department. After all, he pretty much taught the kid everything there was to know about researching.

The hunter couldn't help but sigh at the memory of the first time Sam came to him to learn about all the lore and research out there about the supernatural. He'd been so eager, like a student on his first day of school. It was then Bobby began to see the yearn for education Sam longed for, the normality he so desperately wanted.

"_Uncle Bobby! Guess what?" _

_Bobby looked up as the shaggy haired boy of eight bounded into his study, eagerness radiating off of him in waves. He put down the gun he'd been cleaning to give his full undivided attention to Sam. "Your daddy finally decided to take some scissors to that mop you call hair?"_

_Sam laughed and shook his head. "No, Uncle Bobby…I already told Dad there was no way he was getting near my head. He knows it's a losing battle."_

"_Your daddy always did know when give up one of those." He stood up and ruffled Sam's hair, earning a mock glare from the young boy. "Alright, what is it, squirt?"_

"_Dad said I can start doing some research for him! Isn't that cool?" Sam beamed at Bobby. "And guess what else? He said you could teach me!"_

"_He did, did he?" Bobby glanced up just as John walked into the study. Picking up one of his books, he handed it to Sam. "How about you take a look at that, Sam? I need to speak to your dad."_

"_Okay!" Sam swiped the book from Bobby's hands and made himself comfortable on the old, ratty couch. He was completely engrossed in the book before Bobby could even steer John out of the room._

"_John, what the hell are you thinking?" Bobby demanded as soon as they walked onto the front porch._

"_Bobby, I've got to give him something to do. He's practically climbing the walls ever since he found out what we do."_

"_How in the world did he find out?"_

_John rubbed the back of his neck as he gave a half shrug. "I never meant for him to find out right now, Bobby, but he got a hold of my journal while I was out on a hunt. What was I supposed to do?"_

"_Lie—keep him in the dark for as long as you can! He's just a boy!"_

"_He's older than Dean was when he found out about this life."_

"_That may be true, John, but Sam deserved the chance of a normal childhood."_

"_Are you saying Dean doesn't?"_

"_Don't you start putting words into my mouth, John Winchester—I never said that." Bobby looked out to the Impala where he could see Dean sitting in the passenger seat, bopping his head in time to what he was sure was John's classic rock collection. "Dean's childhood ended the night Mary died and you know that. He was thrust into this life the same time you were, but Sam had the chance to maintain that innocence for some time."_

"_Do you think I wanted him to find out about this, Bobby? You think I wouldn't give anything to make sure both boys couldn't stay kids for just a while longer?" John shook his head. "You know, every time I came home from a hunt, especially a bad one, I'd just go into the boys' room and watch them sleep, especially Sammy. He just had this aura of innocence around him and it kept me grounded, it reminded me that everything would be okay, that I was making the right choice by protecting my boys from the evil out there."_

"_John, you are doing the right thing for them. It's more than any father could ever do for his sons."_

_John looked out at Dean, a small smile on his face. "I wouldn't be asking this of you if I didn't think it was important, Bobby. Now that Sammy knows the truth, I want him to be armed with the knowledge he needs, I don't want him to be defenseless out there." He turned his head to look at Bobby once again. "Please, Bobby—I need someone I can trust. I need someone who can help Sam."_

_Bobby let out a deep sigh before nodding. "I'll help him out John, but I'm still not going to be happy about it."_

_John smiled as he clapped the other hunter on the shoulder. "I never did expect you to be happy, Bobby."_

_They exchanged a few more words before John finally retreated back to the Impala. Bobby watched them drive away before walking back into the house and into the study where Sam was still reading. _

"_So, how about I teach you a thing or two about wendigos?_

Bobby cleared his throat as he shook himself from the memory, grateful he was by himself as he let himself escape to the past. Peering into the box, a snapshot caught his eyes and he couldn't help but smile at it. It was a picture of the Winchester boys, standing in front of the Impala—Dean appeared to be around ten, meaning Sam couldn't have been more than six. Dean had his arm draped over Sam's shoulders, clutching tightly onto the boy while Sam beamed widely at the lens. It was one of the few times the boys could be considered doing something "normal" and it made a tiny ache go through Bobby's heart. What he wouldn't give to let them experience that little slice of normality again.

Bobby sighed as he focused on the task at hand. Going through the books told Bobby two things: one, there was nothing in the tomes to help, and two, John really never mastered the art of organization. Scraps of paper were between pages, all of them with either John's barely intelligible handwriting or crude drawing of demons and other supernatural beings. Bobby supposed he should be the last person complaining about organization, considering his own home was lined floor to ceiling with books, but Bobby considered his method to be organized chaos. He knew where everything was and it was just how he liked it. Should anyone try to come in and clean it up, he had a shotgun and acres upon acres of earth to hide the body.

Figuring he really had nothing left to lose, Bobby began going through the scraps of paper, trying to make sense of what John had written down. Most of it was notes about different monsters and hunts that seemed to be written in a hurry. There were even comments from things he'd heard from hunters while he was out on the road. Bobby took great care in putting the notes back where he'd found them, surmising Sam could add them to their father's journal when he got the time. It would be useful information they could use as they continued John's legacy.

Picking up another book, Bobby turned to the first scrap of paper and felt a smile actually creep up on his face—that, of course, would be something he would deny until his dying day. No way in the world did Bobby Singer ever smile. Grimace maybe, sometimes even chuckle, but he didn't smile. Completely unfolding the sheet of paper, Bobby finally found something that could help them—it was an old Hindu mantra and from the notes in the margins, apparently the one John used when he trapped the Pishacha a few years ago.

Almost knocking the box over in his haste, Bobby raced towards his phone and dialed Sam's number.

"_Bobby?"_ Sam answered before the phone could complete its first ring.

"Sam, I found something I think—and hope—will help Dean."

"_What? Really? What is it?"_

"You somewhere you can write this down? It's a Hindu mantra and it has to be said precise or it won't work."

"_Okay, hold on and let me pull off the road."_ In less than a minute, Sam was back on the phone. _"Alright, let me have it."_

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

The back of Dean's head smashed against the driver's side window as he reared away from the demon coming at him from over the back seat. For a moment, the edges of his vision dimmed, but self-preservation cleared his eyesight as he scrambled to stay clear of the sharp-looking fangs headed toward his face. In the confines of the front of the Impala, trapped between the steering wheel and the seat, not to mention his movements being seriously hampered by the broken bone in his leg, Dean's options for fending off the attack were grossly limited.

As the Pishacha's angry hiss drew nearer the panicked hunter threw out his arm defensively, tossing the remaining holy water outward and coating the demon and a good portion of the headliner. The Pishacha snarled, stopping its forward momentum and hovering just at the top of the seat, its red eyes glaring threateningly as it writhed against the burning liquid. Clawed hands slashed blindly at the air, seeking to connect with Dean's flesh as he fought to pull himself farther away from the attack.

In desperation, Dean lashed out with the Bowie in his left hand, somewhat surprised when he felt the blade bite into something substantial. The demon shrieked, thrashing about with its wounded appendage while its flesh still smoked from the remnants of the holy water. Dean didn't relent; instead he pushed his body upward, flipping the knife over in his hand so that the tip was aimed at the Pishacha's chest. With a shout augmented by fear-charged adrenaline, Dean's arm surged upward plunging the blade deep into the demon's chest. He hadn't expected to cause any real damage, the move had been little more than a reflex reaction to the hunter, but when the creature screamed in reaction to the wound, Dean knew he'd hit pay dirt of a sorts.

Pulling the knife free, a thick ebony sludge splattered outward, coating Dean's hand while inky droplets plopped down on his jeans. The demon blood was strangely cold, not warm like human serum, and Dean cringed as it ran in between his fingers, trailing down his arm. Ignoring the uncomfortable sensation, he redoubled his effort, dropping the now empty flask and tossing the Bowie over to his dominant right hand.

As the Pishacha raged in fury, Dean drove the knife home once again, sinking the metal nearly to the hilt into the demon's upper shoulder area. The creature tore away with an ear-piercing scream that filled the Impala, pulling back so violently from Dean's attack that it yanked the blade from his grasp.

"No!" Dean shouted, scrambling to maintain his hold on the weapon as the demon retreated back into the rear seat.

"Dammit," he rasped angrily as his fingers lost their grip, the knife lodged in the Pishacha as it withdrew.

The hunter considered launching over the seat after his only real weapon, even going so far as to lift his body in that direction, but as the movement jarred his lower leg, he bit into his lower lip to stifle the scream that threatened at the back of his throat. Crimping his eyes tightly shut, he forced himself to breathe through the pain while his hands clenched at the fabric of his jacket.

A low moan from the back seat forced his eyes open and Dean peered cautiously into the rear of the Chevy. The Pishacha hovered in the farthest corner of the back, Dean's large blade still impaled in its fast fading form. Red eyes glowered back at the hunter and a thin snarl formed on the demon's lips.

"Screw you, you sonofabitch. I hope that hurts like hell," Dean snapped, gaining some bravado as he watched the demon suspiciously.

Sagging against the door, he let out a groan, regretting it as the dizziness washed over him again. He could hear his own heartbeat echoing in his ears, knowing full well that his head's most recent contact with the driver's side window hadn't done his concussion a helluva lot of good.

"Okay, gotta stay awake. Four hours right? Or was it five? Doesn't matter. Just gotta stay awake till Sammy gets here," he mumbled as his hand absently went to rub at his temple.

Dean looked out the window, staring blankly as an icy rain began to fall once more. Could they ever catch a break? He wondered where Sam was, worried if his brother was driving through this weather too. If there was any consolation, at least Sammy wasn't stuck here in the wrecked car with him, trapped with the Pishacha, hanging off a cliff, or worse.

"So, Svetlana, how're you doin' back there?" he asked of the demon, casting another look back at the red-eyed spirit. "Can't say I didn't warn you. I made you a deal, you stay in the back seat and I'd stay in the front. We'd leave each other alone. But no, you had to go and try to be a badass. Guess I showed you?"

"_Svaatanya… palaayana," _the demon murmured back at him, much quieter this time than before.

"Yeah, whatever. If that means 'kiss my ass', well then right back at ya," Dean quipped. "You aren't so big and bad now with my knife sticking out of ya, are you?"

The Pishacha moved slightly and Dean recoiled, fearing another attack. With an earsplitting screech, the demon reached up and pulled the blade free of its semi-corporeal flesh. With the blade held in its clawed hand, Dean watched with apprehension, knowing if the demon chose to use the weapon against him there was little he could do to prevent it.

Seconds ticked by like the staccato beat of the rain on the roof of the Impala as Dean waited for the attack. Instead, the Pishacha growled and faded away in a wisp of white fog. The Bowie fell to the floorboards, clattering against the opened curse box and the other collected paraphernalia from the storage shed.

Dean let out the breath he'd been holding, surprised yet relieved that the demon had withheld its assault.

"That's right, you better run away," he shouted defiantly at the empty back seat.

Deep down though, Dean knew it was just a matter of time. He seriously doubted that his knife had done any real damage to the creature, he knew enough about demons to know that short of pure iron or blessed blades, nothing was going to have any real stopping power against the thing. Considering the Colt wasn't in operation any more, when, not if, the Pishacha returned, he had limited options.

"Stay awake and wait for Sammy," Dean reminded himself. "Sam will get here. Sam will save your ass."

_Sam swore he'd save your ass this time…_

"Ah Sam, I think I really screwed up here," Dean groaned feeling fresh wetness trickle down the side of his leg. "You picked a bad time to have to bail my ass out."

_You're my brother, there's nothing I wouldn't do for you…_

"Sammy, just need to talk to Sammy. Talk to Sammy, stay awake…" Dean's new mantra began to recycle through his bleary brain.

He reached for the cell phone lying at his side. Despite concussion blurred vision, he managed to hit the call button, absently thankful that the last number dialed had been Sam's cellular.

_Pishacha coming back… leg not good, head even worse … gotta stay awake, cant stay awake… talk to Sam… Sammy's gonna save me…_

Dean listened to the phone ring, and ring, and ring again. Panic rose up like bile when he thought the call was going to his brother's voicemail.

_Voicemail…_

_Just like Dad, he's not answering anymore. He's gone again, left me behind. Sam's not coming either. _

"_Dean?" _

Sam's voice broke through the haze of doubt and despair but not nearly enough to snap Dean back to being completely alert and oriented.

"_Dean?" _

His voice little more than a whisper, Dean finally responded.

"Save me, Sammy…"

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

"Yeah, Bobby, I got it," Sam said as he switched the phone to his other hand. Hr glanced out the window of the old truck as cars rushed by, even though the roads were becoming more treacherous as the snow continued to fall at a steady pace.

"_You're sure, Sam? Because you have to say it exactly right. Your daddy doesn't specify, but he has a note in here saying if the mantra isn't said exactly as it's written, you're pretty much screwed."_

"Yeah, I got it." Sam frowned as his phone beeped in his ear. He pulled it away and glanced at the screen. "Listen, Bobby—that's Dean calling in."

"_Be precise, Sam, and make sure that idjit of a brother has it right, too. You're still not close enough to get to him in time if he screws up."_

"Yeah, I know," Sam said impatiently, hoping Dean wouldn't hang up.

"_Call me when you get to him."_

"Okay—thanks, Bobby." Sam clicked over, cutting Bobby off before the older man could say anything else. "Dean?" _Please be on the line…Don't give up on me, big brother._

There was silence on the other end before Sam finally heard Dean's whispered plea. _"Save me, Sammy…"_

"Dean!" Was that begging? Dean rarely begged in his life and when he did it was never because of anything good. "Dean, you with me?"

"_Sammy?" _Dean's voice held a hint of confusion and that worried Sam. It meant his brother wasn't in good shape. _"Sammy, where are you?"_

"I'm on my way, Dean." Sam shoved the truck into gear and carefully pulled out onto the road. "I need you to listen to me, Dean. Bobby found something to help you with the Pishacha."

Dean chuckled. _"Does it involve me and a certain hot blonde named Amber?"_

"No, it—"

"_You remember that time in Austin when we went to that bar and met Amber and…I forget her name. What was her name, Sammy?"_

"I don't know, Dean." Sam sighed in frustration as he tried to steer his brother back on track. "Bobby gave me something to help you."

"_Bobby?" _Dean's voice took on the confused tone again. _"When did you talk to Bobby? We haven't talked with him for a few days."_

"Dude, you were just at Bobby's yesterday." _Okay, this is not good at all. _"Dean, did something else happen?"

"_I may have had another run-in with Svetlana…"_

"Define run-in."

"_It attacked me but I managed to hold it off with the holy water and the Bowie, but not before I knocked my head on the window."_ He heard Dean let out a tired sigh.

"Are you okay?" _What are you talking about, Sam? Of course, he's not okay!_

"_Yeah, for the most part anyway. Only now I may have a slight problem."_

"What's that?"

"_Oh, her name was Tiffany! Amber's friend was Tiffany…Man, she was a hot little redhead."_

"Dean!" Sam barked.

"_Geez, Sammy…do you have to yell? My head's pounding enough as it is."_

"Dean, what problem do you have?"

"_Oh…um, I'm kind of out of holy water and I lost my knife."_

"Sonofabitch!" Sam hit the steering wheel with his hand, almost losing control of the truck as it jerked sideways. "Alright, Dean—I need you to listen to me. I'm still about four hours out, but I have a mantra that Bobby says will keep the Pishacha at bay."

"_A mantra? What the hell good is a mantra gonna do me, Sammy?"_

"Dad had it written on a piece of paper—it's what he used when he trapped the Pishacha the first time. You have something to write this down on, Dean? Bobby says it has to be said correctly or you can pretty much kiss your ass good-bye."

"_Of course it does." _He heard Dean hiss in pain as he rummaged around.

"Dean, you okay?"

"_Yeah, I just pulled my leg…I'm good. Alright, let me have it."_

Sam glanced quickly at the sheet of paper in his hands, while keeping his eyes on the road at the same time. "Aum…Bhuh Bhuva Svah…"

"_What the hell?"_

"Dean, just write it down and quit bitching about it. Are you ready for the next part?"

"_Oh, you mean there's more?"_

"Dean!"

"_Quit your belly-aching already, Samantha, and give it to me."_

_If the Pishacha doesn't do him in, I just might…_ "Tat Savitur Varenyam…"

"_This just keeps getting better and better."_

"Bhargo Devasya Dheemahi…Dhiyo Yo nah Prachodayat…"

"_Prego-what?"_

"Prachodayat…P-R-A-C-H-O-D-A-Y-A-T."

"_Is that all?"_

"Yeah, that's it. Now, repeat it back to me."

"_What?"_

"Repeat it back to me." Sam listened as his brother read it back to him, having to correct him on nearly every single word. "Dean, you have to remember to say it right."

"_Yeah, I know, Sammy. Quit telling me that."_

"Maybe if I say it enough times, you'll get it through that hard head of yours."

Dean's response was drowned out by a loud bang that pierced the quiet like a gun being fired. Sam felt the truck jerk to the right and he dropped the phone in order to grab the wheel with both hands to stop the vehicle's trajectory.

"_Sammy!"_

Sam barely heard his brother's frantic yell as the pickup began to spin uncontrollably on the slick road and he fought to keep it on the road. He realized a split second before it broadsided the trees that it was a losing battle. The only thing he could do was be thankful he was wearing a seatbelt and try to protect himself as best as he could as glass exploded inwards from the passenger side, showering him as his head made contact with the steering wheel.

"_Sammy! Sammy, dammit…answer me!"_

Sam tried to maintain his hold on the conscious world, knowing he needed to for Dean. He couldn't pass out now, not when Dean was still in trouble. He felt his eyes getting heavier as blood began to trickle down his head.

"_SAM!"_

"Sorry…Dean…" Sam muttered before he finally lost the fight with unconsciousness.


	7. ComplicationAggravation

**So, here's hoping you don't die from shock but we're back with an update!**

**We really want to take the time to thank each and every one of you who have read and reviewed, especially as of late. It's nice to know that you are still hungry for this story and Tree and I are absolutely thrilled to be getting back to it. Your continued support means the world to us and we just want you to know that we deeply appreciate it from the bottom of our hearts. This has been a really busy time for Tree and I and the support you have thrown her way after she broke her wrist has been absolutely wonderful. It's awesome to know that there are such great people out there.**

**Sorry for the evil cliffie before but is there really any other way to end a chapter? We really hope you guys enjoy this one and we're already hard at work on the next one!**

**Thanks again!**

**Supernaturalsam and Tree66**

**SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN**

**Chapter 7 **

**Complication… Aggravation…**

"_Sam, you can't do this to yourself," Bobby Singer said as the youngest Winchester threw another shovelful of dirt over his shoulder. "You're torturing yourself, son."_

"_I'm fine, Bobby," Sam answered, his voice devoid of any emotion. _

"_Sure you are," the grizzled hunter muttered before letting out a sigh. "You don't need to do this alone, Sam. Let Oscar help—he didn't come all this way for nothin'."_

_Sam didn't even glance at the man standing near the backhoe. "I don't need his help, Bobby." Another shovelful of dirt went flying in the air, narrowly missing the elder hunter._

"_Sam, you don't need to do this alone. Dean wouldn't want you to."_

_Sam tossed the shovel away and pulled himself up and out of the newly-dug grave. "It's not like Dean's in any position to tell me what to do anymore."_

"_Dammit, Sam…"_

"_Look, I just need your help getting the coffin into the grave. I'll handle the rest myself."_

"_Like hell you will."_

_Sam turned to glare intently at the grizzled hunter and for a second, he could have sworn he'd seen Bobby flinch. _Screw it, _he thought. Sam was past caring about anyone's feelings right now—not Bobby's, not Oscar's, not even his own. "It wasn't up for debate, Bobby. Help me with it or I'll find a way to do it myself."_

"_Stubborn Winchester ass…" Bobby muttered but he relented as he nodded towards Oscar. The potbellied man lumbered his way towards them, holding onto a couple of coils of thick rope._

_Wordlessly, the men positioned the rope on both ends of the pine box, maneuvering it until it was flush with the grave. Sam shrugged off Bobby's offer of help, taking the head of the coffin alone and allowing the older two men to take the feet. Carefully, they lowered the box into the burial plot until it lay level in the unearthed ground._

"_You can leave now," Sam said quietly._

"_Sam, no…"_

"_Bobby."_

"_Kid, I have let you have your way a lot these past two days, but no way in hell am I gonna sit back and let you kill yourself like this."_

"_You won't be sitting back—you're leaving." Sam's glance flickered over to Oscar. "You too."_

_Bobby reached out and grabbed the young hunter by his shoulders, giving him a solid shake. "This is stupid, Sam. You need me."_

_Sam violently pushed Bobby away, causing the mechanic to nearly fall to the ground. "Leave."_

_Bobby didn't budge._

"_GO!"_

_The demon hunter stared at Sam for a beat longer before nodding his head at Oscar. "That's all we need, Oscar. Sorry you had to come out all this way."_

"_We're even now, Singer," Oscar replied._

"_Yeah." Bobby focused his attention once again on Sam. "I'll be at the car."_

_Swallowing hard, Sam grabbed up the shovel as soon as Bobby was gone. He wasn't sure he could do this; he wasn't sure that he _wanted _to do this. Maybe he should have Bobby here helping him—he didn't know if he was strong enough to do this. This was really going to be good-bye—there was no turning back now._

"_I'm so sorry, Dean." Choking back a sob, Sam scooped up some of the earlier discarded dirt and threw it on top of the coffin. It made a resounding thud that seemed to echo all around the desolate field. "I failed you—I should have tried harder but instead I did nothing as you were dragged off to Hell."_

"_You were kind of out of the picture, dumbass. What exactly were you supposed to do?" Dean's voice asked as clear as if he was standing next to Sam._

"_I should have done more before that. I mean, I only had a year to get you out of the damn deal."_

_Another load of dirt went into the grave._

"_Sammy, I think you knew all along there was no way out of the deal. Hell, I knew it—that's not saying I didn't want to be saved, that I wasn't hoping there would be some way out of it, but that's our life," Dean argued._

_Sam began shoveling faster. "So, you're saying I should have just given up? That everything I was trying to do for you was for nothing?"_

"_I'm saying that it didn't matter what you did, dude. In the end, it was a battle we weren't gonna win."_

"_I refuse to believe that, Dean. I refuse to believe that you believed that." Sam kept piling in the dirt, almost as if he were a robot set to automatic._

"_I'm not here to argue with you, Sammy."_

"_Then why are you here? To torture me?"_

"_Bobby was right—you can't do this to yourself. I taught you better than that, Sam…you know that."_

_Sam wiped his brow with the sleeve of his tee. "You did it when Dad died. Why should I be any different?"_

"_Because you're not me."_

_The young hunter stabbed the dirt angrily as a tear trailed down his cheek. This was weakness, dammit! Now wasn't the time to show it…not when Dean was watching him._

"_It's okay, little brother. I'm not about to rib you for it. It's not weakness."_

_Sam let out a bitter laugh. "That's funny coming from you, Dean."_

"_I'm not trying to be funny. You put up that wall as soon as I was gone. You thought you were being weak if you let it crumble. It's okay to let it down, Sammy."_

_Sam closed his eyes and slowly shook his head back and forth as the energy seemed to drain from his body. Falling to his knees, he let sobs wrack his body as he lashed out. _

"_I can't do this alone, Dean. I'm not ready to face the world alone. What am I supposed to do, huh? How do you expect me to survive? I know you taught me well but I'm not ready—there's still so much to learn so how do you expect me to go on?"_

_Sam looked up through tear-filled eyes to see Dean was no longer there. Glancing around frantically, needing the guidance of his brother, he frowned in confusion as a ringing filled the air._

_What the hell?_

Sam Winchester jerked painfully awake as the ringing jarred him back to consciousness. _It was just a dream, _he thought to himself. But it was one that was continuously replaying in his head any chance it got. Each time he had it, it became worse because Sam knew time was running out and he knew if he didn't do something soon, the dream was going to turn into a reality.

Groaning, he slowly lifted his head from the steering wheel as the jangle of his phone ceased. The phone could wait until he at least had his senses about him and could take stock of everything that had just happened.

Shivering as a cool breeze entered Bobby's truck, Sam saw he was up against a stand of trees, a light sleet falling from the overcast sky. Testing each of his limbs, the younger hunter found that he could still move freely. In fact, the only thing that seemed to be ailing him was his throbbing head, but what else did he expect when the impact caused him to slam it against the steering wheel?

"Might as well check out the damage," Sam muttered. "I'm not doing much by sitting in here the entire time."

Pulling his jacket tightly against his frame, Sam pushed out of the vehicle and nearly lost his balance as he stepped onto the frosty ground. Bracing himself, he took a deep breath allowing the slight vertigo he felt pass before walking around the truck.

Raising an eyebrow, Sam was pleasantly surprised by what he found. He'd expected to find the entire passenger side of the old pick-up to be destroyed, but there was barely a dent in the steel frame. In fact, the only real damage he could see was the window and the right front tire, which was completely blown out.

"Maybe Bobby won't be too hard on me, after all."

_Yeah, right. He'll probably never let me live this down, especially not after how careful I promised I'd be._

Sighing and knowing he needed to do something about the tire in order to get to Dean, Sam went around to the bed of the truck in search of the spare and jack. It was going to be a bitch to change in the freezing weather, but Sam didn't see where he really had much of a choice at this point. He wasn't sure how long the mantra would protect Dean or even if it would protect him at all.

_If Dean screwed up even one word…_

Sam didn't finish the thought as he peered into the back of the truck.

"Oh, you have got to be friggin' kidding me," he griped when he found it empty. Having enough basic knowledge about trucks to know some spares were kept underneath the vehicle, Sam slowly lowered his stiff body to the ground to examine the underside.

Nothing.

"Bobby is so gonna hear about this," Sam muttered as he picked himself up off the ground. "The man's a friggin' mechanic and he can't even remember to put a damn spare in his own truck."

Dusting off his knees, Sam peered up and down the road to see it was completely deserted. Any other time of the day, there would probably be vehicles running up and down the little stretch, but not now. Not when Sam could actually use some help.

"Just my damn luck…"

Before he could gripe any further, Sam's phone began to ring once again. Jogging around to the driver's side, Sam climbed in and grabbed up the cellular before it could sound out its third ring. Glancing at the screen, he cringed at the number he saw flashing there.

"Bobby…"

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Loss of contact with his brother served to do what nothing else had, it brought Dean more alert. Despite the head injury, concussion and most recent skull-slamming contact with the driver's side window, the incoherency that had been threatening suddenly gave way to concern for Sam. Scooting himself upright, Dean brought up the last call menu and tapped on his brother's cell number. He waited with breath held as the ringing went unanswered.

Not satisfied and slightly desperate, he punched the call button a second time, equally disappointed when once more Sam's voicemail picked up.

"Come on, Sammy," he pleaded with a forced whisper tapping the green key again.

Fear gnawed at his chest, the haunting sound of the loud noise that screamed across the cell generating all sorts of horrible mental images in his head. Sam… bleeding, hurt, needing help, tangled up in some mass of twisted metal and flesh alongside the highway while he was helplessly trapped on the side of a mountain. And worse… Sam… torn, broken, empty eyes peering upward as the rain washed blood into a red-tinged pool around him. Lifeless eyes, still begging for help that Dean simply could not give.

"Dammit!" He shouted, as his desperate call went to voicemail one more time. "All my fault. If something's happened to Sammy, it's all my fault. He wouldn't have been out there, if it hadn't been for my sorry ass getting into trouble."

Dean spent the next several minutes in futility and hope. Still resending the call out to his brother and praying for a response only to become dejected and fretful when his efforts did not produce the desired result. He glanced out the windshield, carefully avoiding making eye contact with the reflection that stared back out of the rear-view mirror. He knew all too well what he would see there; eyes that spoke of failure, lines that registered worry, guilt and years of buried emotions.

Instead, he watched the weather brewing outside the Impala. The wind was picking up again but the icy rain had ceased while the sky was as depressing and foreboding as it had been all along, suiting Dean's current emotional state to a tee. It was nearly impossible to tell what time of day it was without looking at his watch, the sun having given way to gray clouds. He considered glancing down at his wrist but couldn't bring himself to do it.

Four more hours, wasn't that what Sam had told him? But that was before…

He'd had no trouble convincing himself he could hold out for four or five hours, secure in the fact that his brother was on the way. But now, uncertain when or even_ if_ Sammy would come, four hours seemed like eternity and he briefly considered whether anyone would ever find him in time or if his injuries, gravity or the currently absent demon in the back seat would finally finish him off.

He rolled down the window, intent on testing the air, a snippet of a plan whispering in the back of his head. But as the first gust of bone-chilling wind ripped into the car, he quickly put it back up, shivering uncontrollably as the blustery weather bit into his exposed flesh. Dean wrapped his arms around his chest, trying to trap in the meager body heat beneath the scant layers of clothing. He shook a little longer before releasing his grasp and sucked in a deep breath.

"Gotta get out of here. Gotta find some way to get back up to the road and then maybe flag somebody down…" he instructed himself. "Gotta help Sammy."

He shifted his weight slightly, knowing that the first move he had to complete was to shift his injured leg off the bench so he could try to get himself out of the car. Grabbing the sides of the makeshift splint, Dean sucked in a deep lungful of air and held it, biting down on his lower lip in preparation for the motion.

He almost made it, managing to shift the injured extremity to the left. But as he lowered the leg, his knee struck the steering column sending a painful reverberation down the bone and stopping only when it hit the fracture site. Dean yelped, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as he fought against the sickening wave that washed back up his leg and settled in his stomach.

Immediately, he lifted the splinted limb and eased it back onto the seat; gasping, sweat beading his face by the time he finished. It took several minutes, none of which were very clear to Dean later, before he could open his eyes again. He stilled the slight tremble of his hands, rubbing them nervously against the fabric of the hoodie as though someone might have been watching.

"Dammit," he snarled, looking outside once more.

His mind whirled, desperately seeking some solution that allowed him to get to his brother. Rationally, a part of his brain told Dean that he really had no idea where Sam even was, nor did he have any conceivable way to get to him even if he did. But another part of him, centered solidly within his chest, steadfastly refused to give in. Not where his baby brother was concerned.

Dean snagged his cell phone from his jacket pocket again, the tip of his index stabbing the send key. He knew even before he heard the first deep tones of Sam's voice that nothing had changed.

His brother was out there, unable to answer, hurt or worse…

"Bobby!" Dean shouted, the sharpness of his own voice resounding within the small confines of the Impala.

Frantically, he scrolled down the list of contacts, glad at the moment that he had everyone listed alphabetically. Listening impatiently as the phone on the other side rang a half dozen times, Dean felt a tinge of panic that the older hunter wouldn't answer. His mind scrambled as he raced to think of what message to leave on Bobby's voicemail once it picked up.

"_Hello…"_

The sudden unexpected voice on the other end of the receiver startled Dean and he struggled to respond as his dry throat seemed unwilling or unready to cooperate.

"Bobby?" _No, Dean, it's the Easter Bunny…_ he snarked silently.

"_Dean? That you kid? Are you ok? How you holding out?"_ Bobby asked rapidly.

"I'm fine…" Dean began. "But Sam…"

"_Yeah right. Son, when are you ever gonna learn not to lie to me? I can see right through you even when I can't see ya,"_ the older man interrupted.

"Really, I'm okay, but Bobby…I need your help right now."

"_That's not what your brother said. Told me you were busted up, broken leg and all."_

"Yeah, yeah, but that's not the point," Dean insisted. _Dammit Bobby, shut the hell up and let me finish…_

"_Broken leg ain't nothin' to mess around with, Dean. You know that. Your daddy taught you better than that_."

"Bobby…"

"_And besides, with that damn Pishacha stuck in the car with you, you gotta be on the watch to cover your ass, son."_

"DAMMIT, Bobby, you're worse than an old man at a bar, rambling on and on and not listening to a damn word I'm trying to say!" Dean shouted into the phone.

There was a cold silence as Dean waited for a reply. In his mind, he could picture the older hunter tugging at the scruff on his chin in irritation.

"_So, what's up your craw, son?"_ Bobby asked quietly.

Dean sighed, his free hand moving up to the side of his head, his fingertips pressed tightly against his left temple. "It's Sam. Something's happened to him."

"_Sam?"_ Bobby asked incredulously. _"Son, nothing's happened to your brother. I just talked to him not more than an hour ago. Didn't he call you with that Hindi mantra to hold off that friggin' demon?"_

"Yeah, Bobby, he did. But just as he finished there was a loud bang over the phone, almost like a gunshot, and then nothing," Dean recounted.

"_What do you mean 'then nothing'?" _

"Sam quit talking, the call went dead. I've tried calling him back a dozen times, but it keeps going to voicemail."

"_And you automatically assume that your brother's hurt? Or worse?" _

"He's not answering," Dean answered, his voice a mixed blend of irritation and plea.

"_Maybe he just stopped to get some coffee. He's been on the road since last night."_

"And the noise I heard?"

Bobby paused and Dean knew his old friend was scrambling to offer some explanation in an attempt to set him at ease. _Nice try, but I can see right through you too…_

"_So, what do you want me to do?"_ Bobby finally asked.

"Find him, Bobby. Please… I just gotta know that he's alright. He's out here because of me, if something happened to him…" Dean begged. He could feel the adrenaline spurred by concern for Sam ebbing out of his body, his vision hazing over and eyes becoming heavy as injury and fatigue took their toll.

"_I'll get on the road immediately and keep trying to reach him along the way, but Dean…"_

"Yeah?" Dean responded tentatively.

"_You need to be careful yourself. That demon ain't nothin' to screw around with. You got the mantra right?"_ the older hunter queried.

"Yeah, I think I got it," Dean answered.

"_Don't think, boy… Is there any way for you to get yourself outta that car and away from the damn thing? Get somewhere safer that maybe you can protect yourself? I'm thinking the demon is likely still weak from having been trapped for a while, but that's not gonna last, and pretty soon it's gonna be looking for a meal." _

"Ummm…"

"_Dean?"_

"It's a little complicated," Dean began.

"_Complicated?"_ Bobby repeated nervously. _"What's the complication? What have you purposely neglected to tell us?"_

There was another long silence born by Dean's hesitation to answer and the thrumming pain in his lower leg that demanded his attention.

"_Dean?"_ There was no masking the irritation contained in Bobby's voice as he stretched out calling the elder Winchester's name.

"The Impala. I sorta had more than a fender-bender like I told Sammy. I pretty much skidded off the road, through a guardrail and now she's sitting on a shelf about fifteen feet from the road above," Dean admitted.

He could hear Bobby's sudden huff of air, could even picture the older man's expression on his face.

"So, even if I could manage to get out of the car, I don't think there's any easy way for me to climb back up to the road. And even if I pulled that off, I'm miles away from anything that resembles shelter."

"_Dammit, Dean!"_

"I know, I know. But look, Bobby, that's all the more reason you gotta make sure Sammy's okay. I mean, if I don't make it out of this somehow… well, we already know where my ass is going. But I'll be damned if I can go out thinking my brother got hurt trying to come save me when…"

Dean didn't finish the thought. He'd resigned himself to frying down in the Pit, gladly traded it to have his brother back alive. But the entire purpose of selling his soul would be an incredible waste should Sam be lost trying to rescue him now. _Prolonging the inevitable anyway, Sammy…_

"_Boy, when are you gonna get it into that thick skull of yours that Sam ain't no different than you or your daddy? Do you think for one second that he values your life any less than his own? Don't you think it's eating him up inside what you've done for him? There's no way that boy is gonna let you go down without a fight,"_ Bobby insisted.

"Please, Bobby. Just find him and make sure he's okay. I just have a bad feeling…"

"_Okay, son. I told you I would and I am. But Dean, don't give up and don't sit there thinking bad crap. You just watch your ass and we'll get there. You hear me, kid? You're not dying on the side of that mountain and you aren't going southbound for a long while yet."_

Dean barely grunted out his acknowledgement. He could hear Bobby shuffling in the background, soft noises that resembled the packing of gear seeping through the phone. The jangle of keys was joined by the unmistakable creak of a door opening and Dean felt himself smile slightly and breathe a sigh of relief in the knowledge that his friend was heading out to find his brother.

Bobby said his goodbye and assured Dean he'd keep him posted. Dean took a final admonishment to be careful before ending the call and pitching himself back into the heavy silence of solitude.

Rubbing the top of his injured leg, his mind wandered. Bobby's words were haunting him, the implication that somehow Sam might feel the same way he did about what his dad had done for him hurt a little. He didn't want Sam to carry that guilty burden in the same way he had. _But then, at least Sam will be alive to deal with it. Better than the alternative…_

Still, all he ever wanted was to protect his little brother. It was his job after all, the one thing that defined him unlike nothing else. While part of him struggled with the implication of what awaited him in less than a year, the better part of his psyche determined that the sacrifice was well worth the end result. Sure, Sam had called him selfish, accused him of hiding how scared he really was and while he'd desperately refuted those allegations, in the privacy of the wrecked car, Dean couldn't deny the truth of it as his hands began to tremble.

"Stop it!" he commanded himself. "So not going out like some whimpering dog."

Steeling himself and forcing the thoughts about his deal and Hell back into the recesses of his mind, Dean instead lifted his cell and tried another call to Sam. As the phone began to ring, a cool waft of air breezed across his face. Instantly, he knew what it was, but he still slowly turned his head, his eyes shifting toward the back seat and the solidifying form of the demon.

"Just couldn't stay away, could ya?" Dean snarked.

"_Ekaaii… bubhukSaa…"_ it replied back with a long hiss, red eyes locked on the young hunter.

"Yeah, whatever… look, our deal still stands, me in the front, you in the back. If you're really well-behaved, I'll even share my M&M's," he joked.

"_Pratikaara…"_ the Pishacha repeated, baring it fangs as it leaned slightly forward.

Dean retreated, his mind scrambling to recall the words. "Uh…um… oh wait it was Aum Buh… Buh…. Svah…" _Dammit, what was the next word???_ "That… nonono…Tat Savitur…Varenyam…" _The rest, remember the rest Dean…_ "Bhargo… Devasya Dheemahi…"

The Pishacha screeched, jerking backwards in much the same way as when it reacted to the holy water. It flickered like a television picture that was losing its feed, forming and dematerializing back and forth until it stabilized finally. Red orbs narrowed and Dean cringed as saliva began to drool from the creature's elongated fangs.

"_Svaatanya …" _

"Crap! What's the rest of the damn mantra? Dhiyo Yo nah…"

"_Pratikaara… bubhukSaa…" _

The demon moved slowly forward, mere inches from the back of the seat and easily within striking distance of Dean.

"Dhiyo Yo nah… yo nah…" _Sonofabitch, what was that last word? Prego? Provo? Damn, damn, damn…._

Dean closed his eyes as his mind raced to recall the last Sanskrit word. He could feel the Pishacha nearing, his skin prickling as he waited for the sharp pain of the demon's teeth plunging into his flesh.

"Pracho! Prachodayat!" he shouted in triumph.

The Pishacha shrunk back once again, retreating back against the rear seat. Dean chanced opening his eyes, warily watching the demon as it _just sat there_…

"Holy hell, it worked," he cried out with relief. His confidence and security momentarily boosted, Dean shifted back onto the seat from where he'd had tucked himself as far into the corner of where the door and the dash met.

"Not so big and bad now, are you?" he jibed.

The Pishacha growled but didn't move, its eyes seemed to look out beyond Dean.

"What's up? I'm suddenly not good enough for you to snack on?"

And still the demon remained unmoving in the rear of the Impala.

"Fine," Dean sneered. "Sit there, I got nothin' better to do with my time. I can play this game with you all night."

His eyes jerked to the back of the car as the sudden plink of pebbles striking the trunk of the Impala stole his attention. His first thought was that the mountain of rock was shifting, the weight of the heavy car too much for the hard-packed earth to hold. But when the sound ceased and the car didn't budge, he relaxed and turned back to the Pishacha.

It remained in its place but now it looked away from Dean and out the rear window, seemingly unconcerned by the hunter.

"Helllooo… anybody down there?"

Dean's head spun to the voice, his eyes following the demon's as he strained to see out the back of the Chevy.

_NO! _he silently screamed, realization of what was about to happen.

"You sonofabitch! Don't even think about it," Dean snarled at the demon.

The Pishacha merely turned back to face him, its crimson eyes swirling with near delight, its fangs fully visible behind what closely resembled a devious smile. In a flash, it faded into nothingness leaving behind a thin wisp of white fog and a whisper of a sadistic laugh.

"Come back here you bastard!" Dean shouted. "Don't do it… dammit, don't you do it… take me…"

Despite his angry plea, only the relative silence of his own harsh breathing answered.

"…take me…" Dean whispered once again as his head sunk down against his chest in defeat.


	8. The Lightbulb's Getting Dim

**Thanks so much for all the reviews, guys! It really made our day to know that you have been waiting for us and have been willing to stick around for so long. Just for that, we were able to crank out this chapter in no time flat!**

**As always, we want to know what you think! Not sure when we'll get the next chapter up since I'll be out of town for the next week or so, but it won't be too long after that!**

**Thanks again!**

**SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN**

**Chapter 8**

**The Lightbulb's Gettin' Dim….**

"Hellloooo… is there anybody down there?"

Dean startled again at the voice. He straightened up in the seat, straining to see out the rear window and up the side of the mountain. Whoever was up there, despite their best intentions, was about to get the surprise of their life.

"Anybody alive down there?"

"Stay away!" Dean shouted back. "It's not safe, go back"

The soft trickle of more dirt as it fell against the rear of the Impala told Dean that his would-be rescuer had not headed his warning.

"Are you injured?"

"Go back. It's not safe. Please…" Dean repeated, his heart hammering in his chest as he frantically looked about his confines for any sort of weapon to use against the Pishacha.

"Mister, my name's Ed Richter. I got a tow truck up here. I can secure your car with the winch," the man replied. "Anybody else in there with you?

_Anybody else? Does a pissed-off, hungry, flesh-eating demon count?_

"No, it's just me," Dean called back. "But listen…"

"Can you get out of the car?"

_Get out?_ The question spurred the hunter into action. He had to try. This could be his one shot of salvation, provided his savior didn't end up a meal for a hungry demon. Maybe if he could get to the trunk, then he could access the weapons compartment. Surely something in there would hold back the demon long enough.

_Of course, that's providing I can actually get into the trunk… _Dean ruefully reminded himself.

Determined, he opened the door, relishing the cold draft that infiltrated the interior. Sucking in a deep breath, he repeated his earlier, grossly unsuccessful move. Gripping the sides of the splint and the denim underneath, he twisted his body toward the front, moving the injured leg as carefully and slowly as possible. The accompanying pain was surprisingly tolerable, requiring little more than his teeth buried into his bottom lip and the resulting tang of blood. The sky around Dean grayed more, but he knew it had nothing to do with cloud cover.

"Mister?"

"Yeah, yeah. Hold your horses there Ed…" Dean quietly answered. "My leg's broken, it's just taking me a bit," he added louder.

"I'm gonna toss down the end of the cable. Then I'll come down and hook it up. I'll help you, just hang on," the stranger promised.

"NO!" Dean shouted back. "You can't come down here." _Trust me, mister, you don't want to come anywhere near this car…_

Struggling to pull his body to the edge of the seat and the beckoning open door, Dean breathed through pursed lips, lines of perspiration trickling down the side of his face. His head pounded, blood thrumming in the veins that bulged at his temples as he shifted once more and managed to pull his legs free of his beloved car and ease them down to terra _not-so_ firma.

_Success! _

Dean turned his face up to the sky allowing the light icy mist to caress his skin. Bending over, he retrieved Sam's over-sized hoodie that had fallen to the ground and tossed it over his shoulder and back onto the seat.

"Hey! Just sit still, buddy. I'll come down and help you."

The young hunter turned slightly, his eyes following the voice up to the edge of the roadway where a small man stood peering down over the fractured guardrail. Richter appeared to be in his mid fifties and was dressed in grease-stained jeans and a thick hunter orange jacket. A dirty ball cap on his head completed the ensemble and Dean dimly wondered if it was prerequisite apparel for junkyard owners and tow truck drivers. Richter lifted the cap to swipe his forehead, the move reminding Dean of Bobby even more and making him wonder if his old friend had contacted Sam yet.

"Look, Ed… just stay up there. Don't come down here…" Dean warned again.

But it was too late. The man waved Dean's warning off as he slowly lowered the thick metal cable. The hook struck the back of the Impala with a resounding bang causing Dean to flinch.

_Yeah, cause there isn't already enough damage to the old girl…_

Rising to his feet but leaning heavily on the side of the car, Dean steadied himself before making the seemingly long trek to the rear of the Chevy. One painful hop followed another as he closed in on the trunk, his focus set on reaching the weapons stored there. The footing was uncertain enough, but as he hopped-limped one agonizing step after another, the fine mist began to increase; smaller bits of frozen precipitation now striking his body and making the ground underneath him that much more dangerous.

It seemed like forever, but eventually his hands reached the trunk lid, fingers scrabbling for connections against the accumulating ice. He worked his way around to the back, surprised and relieved to find that the rear of the car was still relatively undamaged and the trunk intact. His hand went to his pocket out of instinct, digging into his jeans to pull the keys out so he could open the compartment.

"DAMMIT!" he shouted in frustration, immediately realizing when his fingers came away empty that the keys were still dangling from the ignition_. No way, can I get all the way there and back here again…_ he admitted regretfully. _Sure you can. Buck the hell up, Winchester…_ his inner voice commanded.

The wind was beginning to pick up now as the latest storm front approached, a strong gale sweeping down the side of the mountain and threatening to knock him from his feet. The sleet turned to full-on rain, good news and bad considering the way it was immediately soaking through Dean's clothing. Shivering against the onslaught, he tucked his head against the collar of his jacket as he braced himself for the return trip back to the driver's side door.

The time that passed during his return trip hadn't seemed long, and Dean wasn't sure if it was the cold air nipping at the back of his neck, but something made him turn to look for Richter, suddenly curious that the man had become eerily silent. His first glance up to the top of the roadside revealed nothing other than the bent and broken guardrail and the barest glimpse of the man's truck. Worried, Dean scanned the edge of the highway, thinking perhaps his rescuer might be looking for some other way down to him. But there was no sign of the older man.

"Ed?" Dean called out. "You still up there?"

Only the shrill whistle of the wind through the rocks and trees answered.

"Richter?" he yelled once more, worry tingeing his tone.

"Bubhuksaaaaaaaa….." Echoed on the replying current of air.

Dean's brief hope for rescue rapidly vanished; any glimmer of getting out of this mess was dashed like a fragile bird caught in a tempest and smashed against the rocks. The wind died suddenly, almost as if even nature was holding its breath along with him.

"Richter? Answer me dammit…" he demanded, eyes desperately searching the upper ridge.

The demon shimmered into appearance, its milky white form solidifying atop the ledge where the Impala had broken through. It turned slightly, glaring down at the young hunter, its eyes sparkling in the dim light. Then with a snarl, its maw widened into a mocking grin, its evil intentions embodied with the near-laugh that followed. It turned away, slowly moving from the edge and out of Dean's view.

"NO!" Dean screamed at the Pishacha, He made a quick dive into the car, hands frantically tugging at the keys daggling from the dash.

He ignored the violent protest from his injured leg, pushed back the tug in his chest where bruised ribs objected to the contorted position, and fought down vision-blurring headache from dropping him face-first onto the seat. Peeling back out of the Chevy, Dean stumbled and landed on his back as the fractured tibia refused to hold him. He would have cried out from the pain had it not been for the lengthy scream that cascaded over the side of the cliff distracting him.

"Ed?" he shouted, pushing himself up to his good knee on the muddied ground. "Richter, if you can hear me, just get in that truck and get the hell out of here."

He counted the next few seconds that passed by the beats of his pounding heart. _One, two, three…_ and then the older man's panicked voice sounded.

"Oh my god… what the hell is that? Oh God… help me… please… help me…get back… nooooo…"

Dean cringed again as another blood-chilling scream wafted from above. Dragging his right leg behind him, he managed to get his hands on the opened Impala door and pull himself upright. Exhausted, but determined, he edged himself back along the side of the black car stopping only when a loud thud drew his attention back up the cliff.

"Noooooooo… aghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…." There's was no mistaking what he heard, it was a noise that Dean was all-too-familiar with; the sound of death.

"Richter?" Dean shouted again, faintly holding hope that the man might still be alive despite the ominous crash of a body against metal.

The grotesque sound of feeding continued longer than Dean thought he could stand, at one point causing him to press the palms of his hands against his ears in an effort to block out the unmistakable sound of flesh being torn and the equally repulsive din of bones being crunched. Slamming his clenched fist against the roof of his beloved car, Dean closed his eyes tightly and prayed for the noise to stop.

It did; blessed silence augmented only by the soft patter of raindrops on the Chevy's roof. Dean reopened his eyes, tentatively peering back up to the road. There was no sign of Richter, the demon or the violence he'd heard. In fact, he could have almost let himself believe that none of the previous clamor had occurred at all, had it not been for the large chunk of tattered flesh that suddenly dropped from the sky and landing at his feet with a sickening splat as it struck the thickening mud.

"What the hell?" he exclaimed, flinching backwards.

Staring down at the pile, steam still rising off of the fast-cooling remains, he fought down the need to gag. A portion of Richter's arm and hand could still be recognized within the mass, the mangled index finger pointing outward at Dean accusingly.

He quickly looked away but not before spotting the Pishacha standing at the top of the overhang. The demon was covered in blood, its ghostly white form spattered with crimson, its fangs coated with the remains of its human meal.

"You bastard," Dean snarled. "I swear I'm gonna plant your ass back in the box and then bury the friggin' thing in the deepest pit I can find."

"Pratikaara…" it hissed back at him defiantly.

In a flash, it was right before him, mere inches from his face. The sickening smell of blood and death slammed into Dean's nostrils, but he held his ground, refusing to show any fear.

"Do it, you sonofabitch," he taunted, eyes narrowed as he barely clung to the Impala to remain upright.

The demon stood there, not moving, not even blinking as Dean waited for its inevitable attack. Instead, the Pishacha merely growled and then disappeared in its usual thick fog.

Dean remained still for a moment longer, his body frozen in place, his breath visible on the cold air as he loosed a long exhalation. Rain continued to pelt his haggard body, weighing down his saturated clothing and chilling skin that was already taut from his near-miss encounter with the demon.

He sagged finally, as the tension of the moment passed and pain placed itself atop the priority list in Dean's consciousness. The Impala caught him, providing a metal shoulder for the weary, young hunter to lean on. Shivering violently, he forced himself to avoid looking at the gory remains of the older man.

Already his inner voice was whispering words of recrimination, his conscience laying blame for the death at Dean's feet.

_How many people have to die because of me?_

Weighted by more than just the soggy clothing that clung to his exhausted frame, Dean dropped back onto the front seat, keys forgotten as he succumbed to defeat and hopelessness.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

"_Sam, where the hell have you been?" _Bobby's voice barked out as soon as the youngest Winchester answered.

"Stuck in a truck for hours," Sam answered as he gathered up his meager belongings and exited the truck. There wasn't anything he could do now but try to hike to town and see if he could "borrow" a car.

"_Don't you get cute with me, boy. I know something's happened."_

"Yeah, and how do you know that?" Sam knew he was pissing Bobby off with his evasiveness; just like he knew Bobby could see right through it. But it didn't matter right now because Sam was just as angry as the other hunter was. It was because of Bobby that he was now on his way to commit a felony—just another one to add onto the long list that he and Dean had managed to accrue in the past two or so years.

"_Maybe because your brother just called me freaking out."_

"Are you sure you were talking to Dean?" Sam asked, smirking. "Dean doesn't freak out."

"_Why don't you check your phone and then give me a call back?" _Bobby replied before Sam heard the click on the other end signifying the other man had hung up.

Frowning, Sam pulled the phone away from his ear to peer at the screen. Working his way through the menu until he came to the call log, Sam's eyes nearly popped out of his head as he noticed the twenty or so missed calls. Scrolling down the list, he realized that they all came from Dean.

"Okay, so that's what Bobby means by Dean freaking out…" Sam said slowly as he dialed Bobby's number.

"_I'm guessing you believe me now," _Bobby said as soon as he answered. _"Now, do you wanna tell me what the hell is going on?"_

Sam heard the unmistakable sound of a motor revving up, almost as if it were accelerating after a red light or stop sign. "Bobby, where are you?"

"_I'm on my way to help your two sorry asses."_

"What? Why?" Sam asked as he kept walking. "You're supposed to be working on the Colt."

"_Yeah, and you were supposed to either be with Dean or getting pretty damn close by now," _Bobby argued. _"Where are you?"_

Sam sighed. "I'm on my way to jack a car."

"_And why would you be doing that?" _There was no denying the irritation in Bobby's voice.

"Well, for one, because I got into an accident," Sam answered, just as peeved. "And two, because you didn't feel the need to put a spare tire in the truck."

"_What do you mean you got into an accident? Can't you two boys drive anything without getting into a mess?"_

"I had a blowout, Bobby, not to mention the weather is shit. Are you gonna blame me for that one, too?" Sam began to jog as he spotted a parking lot about fifty yards away. _Please tell me there's something there!_

"_Don't you be a smartass with me, I'm not in the mood for it, Sam."_

Getting closer to the parking lot, Sam saw he was standing in front of a bar. Not only that, he saw that a few cars dotted the property. Making a beeline for an earlier model Honda Civic, Sam smiled when he noticed the doors were unlocked. Not only that, but the keys were also in the ignition. Now all he had to hope was that the owner was inside getting so wasted, he'd never know his car was gone.

"Look, I'm sorry, Bobby," the young man replied as he got into the car. Turning the key, he felt a surge of excitement as it started on the first try. "I can't help but keep thinking that everything's working against me right now, almost as if fate is trying to keep me from getting to Dean in time."

"_Sam, you'll get to him."_

"Yeah, but what if I don't?" Sam pulled out of the parking lot, gunning the engine as cautiously as he could, wanting to make up very valuable lost time.

"_Dammit, Sam, I'm not going to have you start talking that nonsense like your brother."_

Sam frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"_Just how much did your brother tell you about his accident?"_

"He just said that he got into a fender-bender. Broke his leg so he wasn't able to go for help or get any weapons to use against the demon." Sam gripped the phone tighter in fear. "What didn't he tell me, Bobby?"

Bobby let out a long sigh. _"He went through a guardrail, Sam. He said he's about fifteen feet below the embankment."_

Sam hit the steering wheel in frustration. "God damn son of a bitch!" He yelled. "I just knew that he was keeping something from me! Why the hell does he have to always keep crap away from me? For once, I just wish he'd actually tell me the truth!"

"_He probably didn't tell you because he knew you would react like this," _Bobby muttered.

"Are you actually defending him?" Sam asked, astonished.

"_No!" _Bobby answered gruffly. _"You think I was happy he decided to keep that little fact to himself?"_

"I might actually consider killing him myself for this one."

"_You better get there and hope you get that chance. Sam, I don't know how much longer he's gonna be able to hold on."_

"What do you mean?"

"_How he was talking—it's like he was giving up. He kept spewing all this crap about making sure that I got to you in time. He was okay with heading downstairs a little early as long as you were okay."_

"Dammit, Dean…"

"_My sentiment exactly."_

Sam rotated his neck until he heard a few satisfying pops. "Listen, Bobby—there's no need for you to come out all this way. I'm back on the road now so I'll be with him soon."

"_No, I'm already on my way. You boys need me, whether you're willing to admit it or not. Someone has to get your asses home in one piece."_

"Bobby…"

"_No arguments, Sam," _Bobby said firmly. _"Now, before you get to Dean you're gonna have to stop and pick up some sandalwood." _

"What for? Bobby, I don't have time to stop and stockpile your herb collection," Sam griped into the phone.

"_No, but you do have time to pick it up if you want to keep this damn demon at bay and get it back into that box."_

"Are you sure it's gonna work?"

"_Not really, no. But I came across it in your daddy's notes so it's worth a shot."_

"All right—I'll see if I can find some…" Sam hesitated. "Hey, thanks, Bobby…for everything, I mean."

Bobby grunted. _"Save your gratitude for when you get your brother back in one piece. Call me when you get to him."_

"I will." Sam disconnected the call and frowned as he sped down the treacherous road. Bobby's comment to him about Dean had Sam worried. He didn't like to hear that Dean was willing to give up—not right now. Especially not when Sam was working his ass off trying to save his stubborn brother.

Sam wasn't willing to let his nightmare from earlier come true.

He needed to hear Dean's voice if for nothing more than to have the reassurance that his sibling was still sticking around, that he hadn't given up on him. Thumbing through the phone, Sam pressed the send button as soon as it highlighted Dean's number.

The phone seemed to ring forever and for one fleeting moment, Sam was actually afraid that Dean had given up. Finally after the fourth or so ring, Dean's groggy voice greeted him.

"_Sammy…"_

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He startled awake with a sniffle and then immediately followed that up with a sneeze that rattled his abused rib cage with a ferocity he wasn't prepared for. Grimacing, his breath hitched in his chest, he tucked his arm protectively against his side in an effort to splint the groaning bones and cartilage beneath his skin. He regained some semblance of alertness and composure, induced by the violent shiver that coursed through him, and groaned loudly, immediately regretting the noise and the toll it took on his throbbing head. _This sucks out loud…_ he summarized, but the physical abuses were only the tip of the iceberg.

It was cold! Worse than cold, it was likely the coldest he'd ever remembered being in his life. _And considering some of the situations I've been in hunting, that says a lot… _Dean added silently.

He shivered again, his flesh feeling like it might split apart and burst; icy crystals splattered across the interior of the Impala like the remnants of a T-1000. Rubbing furiously, he tried to restore warmth to his chilled arms, suddenly realizing he was still covered in the sopping wet clothing. A stray breeze glided across his body, augmenting his already miserable state and making the garments only that much colder on his skin.

Twisting slightly, he saw that the driver's side door was still slightly ajar, allowing the frigid air to sweep into the car. _Must've passed out and left it open…_ Dean surmised._ Dumb mistake there, Winchester. _He pulled it completely closed with an angry tug, sinking back against the leather with a sigh that in no way conveyed comfort. Despite the lack of wind, he was still freezing, the jacket and jeans plastered to his body now not only wet but also hardening with the freezing temperatures.

If there was any good news out of his current circumstances, it was the meager realization that his broken leg had dulled… finally… into a barely perceivable ache.  
_  
That's really not good news, now is it? _his inner voice reminded him. In fact, if he were completely honest, Dean couldn't feel the leg at all except for the dim perception of the splint and stiffening fabric of his jeans.

"Just great," he groaned. "Not bad enough I've lost a pint of blood, smashed in what little amount of brains I can claim, and now I get to worry about hypothermia?"

He laughed nervously then chastised himself for feeling the need to keep up his usual front when there was no one around to see him. Not like Sam was here…

_You're gonna die here, Dean. And there's no need to worry about getting warm now… you'll be warm enough real soon…_

He tried to ignore the voice in his head, instead following his ingrained training and working on getting dry and salvaging body heat. Dean began by peeling off his jacket, shrugging it from his shoulders and pulling it from behind him. He laid it out flat across the back of the seat then went to work on stripping off the button-down and Henley underneath.

Shirtless, he couldn't contain the violent chills that racked his body, goose bumps rising up on his skin like an instant rash. His teeth beat out a clicking percussion as they chattered uncontrollably. Glancing down his bare chest, the skin covering his exposed upper body was a mottled blend of blues; lighter areas from exposure to the cold, darker, more violent patches that resulted from his sternum impacting the steering wheel.

Dean touched the areas gingerly, mesmerized by the wealth of color beneath his fingertips. _It should hurt more…_ he thought to himself. _It hurts enough, jackass…_ his inner voice returned. There was nothing he could do for the ribs, but he knew he had to remedy the loss of body heat. Stretching, he reached for his gear bag from where it had slid to passenger's side floorboard. Rummaging inside, he pulled out a dry t shirt and another Henley, tugging them over his head and immediately relishing the miniscule warmth they provided. Spotting Sam's discarded hoodie, he snagged it from the mat and quickly added it to the other clothing.

He was warmer, but only barely, his torso and legs still shaking from exposure. There were clean, dry jeans within his bag and for a moment Dean considered changing. But the prospect of moving his broken leg didn't seem worth the pain and effort. _Do the next best thing…_ he commanded himself, his inner voice suddenly taking on a tone that eerily sounded like his dad's. _Improvise, adapt, overcome…_ His father's Marine Corp slash hunters motto screamed back through his mind.

Digging back into the pack, Dean drew out the remainder of the clothing he'd packed for the trip. The pickings were spare, after all, he'd only planned on being gone for a couple of days, so the bulk of his generally sparse wardrobe had remained back at Bobby's. _Nice time to start packing light… _There were two pair of jeans, one clean, one sorta clean. An extra t-shirt … _definitely not clean… _his nose told him. And lastly, a thick pair of warm-ups, barely worn considering he'd found "other" ways of keeping warm that night at the motel before he'd gone to finish emptying his dad's storage locker.

Hastily, he took the clothes and layered them over top his legs, the weight of the fabric providing some semblance of warmth despite the wet chill of the denim. Dean hunkered into the makeshift blanket, absently noting through the windshield that the rain had once again switched over to snow. He closed his eyes and listened to the wind whistling shrilly outside the Impala, grimly acknowledging that it was going to be another intolerably cold night on the side of the mountain.

His throat begged for something to drink and Dean rebuked himself for not completing the trip to the trunk where not only his weapons resided, but a couple spare bottles of water.

"You've really screwed this all up, haven't you Dean?" he asked aloud. "Got yourself hanging on the edge of a cliff, turned a flesh eating, hungry demon loose, and maybe even got your brother killed. And for what?"

"Shoulda just torched the shed. Why the hell care about what Dad left behind? Not like he gave a damn about any of it, not like he gave a damn about anything other than that goddamn yellow-eyed bastard."

A spasm tore through the hunter, his body reacting to the exposure and blood loss, and interrupting his rant. When it stopped, Dean sucked in a lungful of air and reopened his eyes. Everything seemed dimmer, less distinct and his fatigued mind knew he was fading fast. _How much longer can I hang on out here?_

_As long as you have to…_his father's voice ordered.

"Just so damn tired," he admitted, his eyes fluttering as he fought against the darkness that pulled on him. "Tired of fighting, tired of scratching and clawing just to survive. Tired of taking three steps forward just to get knocked back four."

_Soldier up, Dean. We don't have time for any weakness…_

"I'm not weak, Dad. Dammit, I've busted my ass every single day just to show you I was never weak," he answered the imaginary voice.

_Wake up, Dean!_

"Huh? Oh, yessir," the young hunter responded, his eyes snapping open as he realized that he'd drifted off once more.

_You gotta keep alert. Watch Sammy. I'll be back in a couple of days… _his dad ordered. _Don't let me down, son. I'm counting on you to watch over your brother. _

"I always do, Dad. Why don't you trust me? Just because of that time in Fort Douglas? I learned my lesson, Dad. I've never failed since."

_Never failed? What happened at Cold Oak?_

"I've tried to protect, Sammy. Hell, I sold my soul to bring him back. What the hell more do you want from me?"

_I've given you an order, son…_

"And I followed it," Dean shouted.

_Then where's your brother now, Dean?_ his father's voice demanded.

"Uh, ummm… I dunno," Dean quietly admitted, bracing himself for the onslaught his foggy mind knew were coming.

_How can you not know? It's just like before. You put him at risk because of your actions…Sam might be dead and all because of you…_

"I know…I'm sorry… I never meant…"

_That's just it, Dean. You never mean to put your brother in harm's way, but you do, don't you? Fort Douglas with the Striga, St. Louis with the shapeshifter, and you nearly let that bastard Gordon Walker get him in Lafeyette. Anything ringing a bell here?_

"But…"

_And let's not forget the granddaddy of them all; Cold Oak. Why'd you let Sam out of your sight to go into the diner? You knew what was out there, what was after him. You're brother died, Dean… _John Winchester's voice reminded him.

"But I fixed that…" Dean insisted.

_Yeah, you fixed it alright. You're leaving him all alone to fend for himself, no one to cover his back once you're down in the Pit…And how bout' now, Dean? Who's watching out for Sam right now while you're sitting here? Even if he comes to rescue your sorry ass, what's going to keep him from becoming a Pishacha snack? You?_

Dean quieted. His father's accusations were all correct. Even if Sammy were okay and still on his way to rescue him, how the hell could Dean ever protect his brother from the hungry demon. He was as good as serving Sam up on a silver platter. Trapped as he was on the cliff, hampered by the broken leg, there was little he could do to prevent the Pishacha from getting to Sam.

"Dad was right, I've really screwed this up. I tried to save Sam only to leave him unprotected. I called him to help me with no thought to the risk I was putting him in…"

The young hunter shivered again, the momentary illusion of warmth suddenly fleeting as the naked metal around him acted like a gigantic refrigerator, holding in the cold and sucking out the scant heat from his body.

_Just go to sleep…_ his body demanded. _It'll all be over painlessly._ _You won't even feel the demon's teeth gnawing into your flesh… _

"No!" Dean shouted weakly.

_Yes… let the Pishacha take you… save Sam…_

"Protect Sammy…" he feebly agreed, his eyes drooping closed, his breathing evening out.

_Answer the phone, Dean!_ another voice commanded.

"Huh? Phone? What phone?" he mumbled.

_Just answer the goddamn phone…_

"No phone, just sleep… Wanna sleep, Sammy. Wake me up later…"

But in the recesses of his consciousness, the voice and the incessant sounds of his ring tone couldn't be shunted out. Angrily, groggily, he fumbled for his cell intent on shutting off the irritating noise.

_DAMMIT DEAN, answer the friggin' phone… _The angry voice shouting in his head now was a bizarre mix of his dad's and brother's deep timbre. _Funny,_ he mused. _Never realized how similar their voices were…_

Yet something about the voice's insistence made Dean lift the cell up to face level and peer blearily at the screen. Instead of ignoring the call and powering off the device, Dean felt the briefest sense of hope as he spotted the name on the caller ID.

"Sammy?"

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Sam's blood ran cold at the sound of Dean's voice. His brother was fading fast and the young hunter wasn't sure how much longer Dean had. _Please just let him hold on until I get there. _

"_Sammy…"_

"Dean, are you okay?"

Dean grunted, his voice a mere whisper, _" M' fine, Sammy."_ -the stock answer that Sam knew was coming.

Sam fumed as he continued to speed down the road. "Don't you dare bother lying to me, Dean. I'm pissed off enough at you as it is."

_"You're pissed? Why?"_ The confusion in Dean's voice was blatant and Sam almost felt guilty for snapping at his brother under the circumstances. But ultimately, he needed to get through to Dean, in whatever way possible.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because I have a stupid ass brother who thought he could keep shit from me. Did you really think Bobby wouldn't call me? That's what you wanted him to do, after all."

"_You didn't answer your phone, Sammy," _Dean stated matter-of-factly.

"Maybe because I couldn't."

"_Why not?"_

"Do you want the truth or should I lie my ass off like you do?" Sam was still angry, his tone reflecting not only that but his frustration and worry, as well.

Dean was silent for a long moment and Sam was afraid he'd either pushed his sibling too far or Dean was unconscious. Just as the younger Winchester was about to call out to him, Dean finally spoke up.

"_Look, Sam…I should have told you everything but I knew you would have freaked." _Dean's voice was slightly stronger sounding, some semblance in clarity replacing the uncharacteristic passiveness he'd been displaying.

"You think I'm not freaking now?"

"_I said I was sorry, dude. What more do you want from me?"_

Sam rotated his shoulder to alleviate some of the stiffness settling there. "Nothing, Dean. I'm sorry, too."

"_Will you tell me what happened then?"_

"I had a blowout—rammed into a thicket of trees."

"_What!?"_

"I'm fine, Dean. I just got a bump on the head—you know I've gotten worse."

"_Still doesn't make me feel any better," _Dean muttered. _"So, are you stranded now?"_

Sam frowned at the sound of slight panic in Dean's voice. "No…I managed to snag a car from a local bar. I don't think the guy was gonna need it any time soon and I probably did the world a favor by taking it."

"_Good…" _Dean's voice began to trail off.

"Dean, are you still with me?"

"_Yeah, yeah…I'm just tired, you know?"_

"Whatever you do, Dean, you need to try to stay away for me, okay? I'm trying to get to you as fast as I can. I probably just have another hour and a half or so."

"_It's all my fault," _Dean said as if he didn't hear Sam. _"If I hadn't gotten into this stupid wreck, then you wouldn't be busting your ass trying to get to me…and that damn demon wouldn't have gotten loose and Ed would still be alive…"_

Sam quirked an eyebrow in confusion even though he knew his brother couldn't see it. "Ed? Dean, who the hell is Ed?"

Dean sighed tiredly. _"He's some guy who stopped to help me…or he tried to anyway. Before that damn Pistachio killed him…slaughtered him…"_

"Son of a bitch…" Sam muttered, knowing this is what was bothering Dean all along. Dean could carry on guilt with the best of them, Sam included. That alone made the shaggy-haired man put on even more speed, desperate to get to his brother. "Dean, none of this is your fault."

"_It is, Sam…everything's…my fault…every…" _The older Winchester's voice faded in and out, almost as if the effort to talk was too much for the injured hunter.

"Dean! Dean, I need you to stay with me!" Sam shouted into the phone. _Come on, Dean…answer me! _"Do you hear me?"

Dean gasped as if he was startled by Sam's tone. _"Wha…Sammy… whaddya yellin' at me for?"_

Sam tried the sympathetic approach, knowing full well that his sibling would give him grief for it when he was back to one-hundred percent. _It doesn't matter, just as long as he sticks around to get that chance. _"Dean, I need you to listen to me, okay? You've got to try to stay awake for as long as you can, okay?"

"_But…I'm so…tired…Sammy," _Dean protested weakly. _"Just…five minutes…okay? I promise…I won't sleep any longer…than that…"_

The younger hunter could feel frustration welling up in him as he listened to his brother on the other end. Frustration with the weather, the blowout, the situation they were both in and most of all with himself for not being able to do nothing more than try to keep Dean alert over a damn phone. It wasn't like Dean to be this weak, this defeated and it actually scared Sam. _He's cold, hurt, and lost God only knows how much blood… I gotta keep him awake_.

"Come on, Dean…I need you to talk to me, man. I need to know that you're still with me. Can you do that, Dean? Can you talk to me?"

"_About what?" _Dean asked softly.

"Anything!" Sam pleaded.

"_I can't…think of…anything…"_

Sam's frantic mind tried to think of something he could use to keep Dean's attention. _Come on, Sam! You love to think, so why is it now you choose to actually not come up with something?_ Glancing over at the passenger seat, Sam noticed the old envelopes hanging out of his bag. _Mom's letters!_

"Listen, Dean…if you promise to stick around with me I'll give you something when I get there, okay?" So, yeah, it sounded like he was trying to bribe a small child, but Sam was willing to try anything at this point.

"_Like…what?"_

"I found a letter from Mom to you," Sam answered. "And if the one she wrote me is any indication to go by, you're gonna want to see it."

"_Sam…Mom's dead…" _Dean stated.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the newsflash, Dean. She wrote it before she died."

"_Sam…that's just crazy…"_

"Call me crazy when I give it to you, okay? Hell, call me anything you want—I just need you to hold on, Dean. Don't give up on me, you got it?"

"_Never…Sammy…"_

"Are you gonna stay awake for me?"

"_Sure…sure…" _Dean's foggy voice faded away as there was a soft thud on the other end of the line.

"Dean? Dean!" Sam yelled, frantically trying to reach out to the injured hunter. "Answer me, Dean!"

Silence.

"Wake up, Dean! I need you to friggin' wake up!"

A throaty growl was the only answer Sam had before the call was disconnected.


	9. We're Seeing Things in a Different Way

**Thanks for all of the comments and encouragement, everyone! We really appreciate it so much!**

**And now, without further ado...**

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**We're Seeing Things In a Different Way…**

_His shoulder was killing him, the joint pulled viciously upward as it strained to support his dangling body weight. A burning and tearing pain, alternately waxing and waning like the surge of the ocean's waves, emanated from the upper portion of his arm as he hung there in the dark. _

_He opened his eye; pupils struggling to focus in the dimly lit place not helped by the dirt-tinged perspiration that trickled down the side of his face and found its way under his lashes and lids. It stung, mild in comparison to his shoulder, but enough that he immediately squeezed his eyes tightly closed, pressing them together in hopes that the resulting tears would clear away the offending sensation. _

_He shivered, chills racking his body despite the thick jacket and double layer of shirts underneath. It was cold, and damp, both conditions eating away at the slight reserve of energy he ferociously clung to. What he wouldn't do at the moment for some semblance of warmth, but the chances of that were slim to none. _

_The shoulder screamed again as another spasm took him, brutally pulling at the injuries that covered his body. _

_He was losing blood; that much he knew for sure and likely was the reason why he felt colder than he normally should. He could feel the warm wetness inching its way down his side and collecting at the spot where the waistband of his jeans lay just above his hips. It was an irritating sensation, the oozing blood, but considering his predicament, not one that he had time to be overly concerned about. _

_He had to get down, get free of the bindings that held him firmly from the roof of the cave. It was only a matter of time before the wendigo came back, only a matter of time before he became the creature's late afternoon snack. _

"_Winchester appetizer…" he grumbled, "Hope the hell you choke on me…"_

_The pain in his arm flared again, stealing his breath away and threatening to let the darkness suck him back down. He battled against it, eyes fighting to open while his mind worked to process what was happening. _

"_Stay awake, Dean…" he commanded himself silently. "Sammy will find you, just hang in there…"_

_But deep down inside, the young hunter wasn't so sure. _

_He'd done his best to leave his brother some sort of trail to follow, an uneasy feat when one considered that he was being dragged by his legs over the rough forest floor, his body painfully taking the abuse of every rock, stick and bush along the way. Above him, the wendigo trudged on, a clawed grasp on it most recent prey as it hauled Dean and Hallie back to its lair, seemingly unconcerned of the candy being dropped behind it; a multi-hued trail of popcorn._

_Trussed up like meat in a larder, Dean worried that Sam wouldn't find them in time, if ever. He dimly remembered the maze of tunnels the thing took as it worked its way back to its granite-walled pantry with the captives. Twisted and dark, it could take days for anyone to find the right passageway that lead to where they were being held. Surrounded by the smell of decaying meat, it seemed that the cavern had remained undetected by all except the creature's victims. _

"_Come on, Sammy…" he pleaded aloud, his body twisting as he dangled by his wrists. "Gotta find me lil' brother. Find me before its too late…"_

His shoulder protested again, this time augmented by a stabbing pain that seemed to pierce straight through his flesh and into the very marrow of his bones. He jerked away from the sudden agony, eyes fluttering but not completely opening as awareness beckoned at his semi-conscious mind.

"_Starting early? Can't wait to have a taste of me, you bastard?" _

The pain abated slightly, replaced by a wet, warm sensation that bathed the extremity. Even in the darkness, Dean could smell the blood, unsurprised that it was now freely flowing from the wendigo's bite. What did surprise him was how vivid the scent was; the sickening taste of iron seeming to fill his mouth.

Somewhere, deep within the depths of his subconscious, Dean knew he was dreaming, reliving the events of Blackwater Ridge in that Wes Craven sort of way where nightmares were nearly as real as the actual occurrence. Or at least he was pretty sure, since his memories of that place as well as the time between being hung like a deer carcass and Sam's finding him were more than a little fuzzy.

"_Sam found me…" _His memory affirmed_. _

"_No, Sam is still out there looking for you. But he'll never make," _the inner voice insisted_. _

"_Still looking? No, not right. He found me, him and Hallie's brother. We all got out alive…" _Dean repeated.

"_That was then, this is now… You're not in the cave, you're in the Impala. Hanging off a cliff… and Sam doesn't know where you are. He'll never find you in time."_

_  
"Impala? Cliff? What the hell?" _Dean quietly questioned.

The burning pain at his shoulder returned and accompanied by the confusing blend of images, served to bring him more awake. The desire to simply ignore the physical sensation and drop back into his tortured dream was powerful, but ultimately, the incongruity of what was real and what was hallucination drew him to alertness.

_Not in the cave? Then where? Still smell blood, but not the rotting meat of the wendigo's leftovers…_

Dean forced his eyes opened, expecting to see the rough granite of the abandoned mine surrounding him. Instead, he glimpsed bleak light, subtly illuminating the black and cream colored interior of his beloved Chevy.

Memory flooded back, his foggy brain assimilating the information pouring in. _Wreck…cliff…hurt…sooo screwed!_

Dean groaned as the fingers of his left hand rose up to rub at the still-painful spot on his right shoulder. The dregs of his dream still whispered in the back of his head, and he absently wondered why the false-pain of his hanging in the cave still haunted him physically now. Calloused fingertips met sticky wetness, instantly dispelling any possibility that the pain was left over from his unconscious wanderings.

Eyes followed the path of the digits, landing squarely on the spot at his shoulder where reality smacked him coldly in the face.

"What the hell?" Dean exclaimed again.

The top portion of Sam's borrowed hoodie was saturated in red, the fabric stained from light gray to dull crimson. A jagged tear left a flap of the fleece dangling from the top of his arm and had it not been for the underlying pain, Dean might have thought he'd just accidentally snagged the sweatshirt.

Pulling the hole apart, he examined the arm beneath the tear. A large chunk of skin was missing from the spot just above his bicep, pink subcutaneous tissue revealed beneath the torn flesh. It was a jagged laceration, almost as if he'd gotten caught on something sharp and had pulled roughly away.

He'd done something similar once before, getting caught on a barbwire fence. Desperate to catch up with his dad and being stalked by the very chupacabra he'd been hunting, he'd gotten tangled on the sharp metal fencing, the jagged barbs reaching out to snag his lower right calf.

In his haste, Dean had simply yanked free, immediately regretting it as the rusty metal tore through his jeans and ripped out a fair chunk of his lower leg. Had it not been for the high-pitched squeal of the chupa, he would have stopped to examine it. Instead, Dean continued on, stalwartly ignoring the horrendous pain and non-stop liquid warmth that ran down his leg and began to coagulate at the top of his boot.

It was only later that night at the cabin they'd based out of that the full extent of the injury was revealed. His dad oscillated between anger and concern as he worked to sew together the tattered edges of flesh, chastising Dean for being both careless enough to let the creature come after him and then even more sloppily giving the thing a blood-trail to follow.

He'd survived, eventually putting a bullet right between the chupa's eyes, but the image of that wound, not to mention the pinkish scar on his leg, remained fresh.

Sitting there now, mesmerized by the sight of this recent injury and lost in the memory of that hunt, Dean's fatigued brain struggled to process the cause of the damage. He couldn't immediately remember snagging his arm on anything, certainly there wasn't any exposed barbwire inside the Impala. For that matter, there wasn't any jagged metal or sharp implement to account for the wound anywhere on or in the Chevy.

"And again I say… what the hell?" he asked aloud.

Tearing the fabric down more, Dean exposed the remainder of his upper arm. Seeking out one of the drying shirts he'd discarded earlier, he tore a long swathe off the bottom and was about to use it to staunch the bleeding.

"_BubhukSaaaaaaa…"_

The young hunter's head jerked upward as the softly hissed word infiltrated his ears. His body froze, unmoving as the Pishacha glared at him from its customary place in the back seat.

As Dean stared at the demon, the mysterious origin of his injury became brutally clear. The Pishacha's mouth was painted in freshly tinted red; a small fragment of gray fleece dangling from the corner of its fang-filled maw.

"You sonofabitch…" Dean growled. "Just too much of a friggin' coward to come at me while I was conscious?"

"_NiryaaNaaaaaaaaa..."_

"Well, I hope you enjoyed the white meat, bitch… cause next time you're coming away with a mouthful of busted teeth," he threatened.

The demon growled at him, unfazed by Dean's threat. It shifted slightly in the back seat, rising up so the top of its head grazed the Impala's ceiling. There was no denying that the creature had been strengthened by its recent meal of tow-truck driver, its corporeal form even more imposing as it hunched over within the confines of the car.

Dean tried to conceal the nervous twitch in his hand. It was a cat and mouse game and he was feeling as though he had just become an overgrown fuzzy rat. He felt certain that if the demon could lick its lips right now, just for effect, it probably would.

Sitting there frozen in place neither hunter nor Pishacha moved, each seeming to wait on the other. Despite the immobility, Dean's mind was racing. Foggy from injury, cold and dehydration, he struggled to figure some way out of the situation.

"Don't suppose you'd just let me out of here, preferably with all my parts intact?" he snarked.

He was answered with a low snarl.

"Guess not then. So, um, no chance you'll just head on up the road now that you're feeling better. Maybe snack on some possum, catch you a rabbit or two, maybe you could even get lucky and find some huge-assed buck. They'd taste a helluva lot better than me."

The creature's eyes narrowed and Dean tensed reflexively. He knew, knew with every hunter-fiber in his being, that it was about to attack him. He just didn't know what the hell he was gonna do to stop it.

_Pocketknife… _his mind offered. _No, never get it out and opened fast enough._

_Mantra then…_

But even as the idea popped into his mind, Dean knew he wouldn't, couldn't remember the complicated words and strange pronunciations. Not in his current condition.

The Pishacha twitched, edging forward, fangs bared and its mouth curled upward in a sadistic smile.

Dean's hand absently inched down to the side of his right leg, his fingers lightly coming in contact with the cold aluminum shafts of the crossbow bolts that encircled his injured extremity. The leg throbbed unmercifully, but that wasn't what captured his attention.

Silently, cautiously, he loosed the knot holding the makeshift splint together, gently pulling against the top strip of fabric. Out of the corner of his eye, he kept a careful watch on the demon.

_Just another second… just a little more…_

The Pishacha had no regard for allowing the hunter a chance to defend himself. It launched over the back of the seat with an angry growl, its form slamming into Dean and pressing him back against the driver's side door as sharp teeth snapped at his upper body.

A scream tore from Dean's throat as the demon buried it's fangs into the flesh above his collar bone, blood rushing to the surface from where his skin was punctured. With his left hand, Dean pushed against the creature's chest, his breaths coming in gasps as the pain threatened to pitch him into oblivion. But survival was an instant shot of adrenalin, and he punched repeatedly at the demon's head in hope to dislodge it from his shoulder.

The Pishacha screeched, releasing its toothy grip on Dean's body, pulling away with a spray of the young hunter's blood. Undeterred, it dove back in, intent once again to feed on the injured man.

"Get… off… me… you sonofabitch…" Dean gritted out, throwing up his forearm and blocking the demon's advance.

The Pishacha's jaws snapped like a gator as it tried to get past the appendage for another taste of his flesh. Razor-like claws slashed at Dean's arm, shredding though the fleece and laying open deep furrows in his skin.

Panic filled the hunter as the weight of the creature pressed down on him, its teeth and nails ripping into him like a rabid animal. The voice in his head screamed at him to mount some sort of defense even as his body weakened further from the inflicted damage.

Blood poured from dozens of cuts as the demon clawed and snapped. At one point, it buried its fangs into the side of Dean's left hand; a mouthful of sharp incisors slicing through the calloused skin and wedging between the small bones of his palm and wrist.

Dean bellowed in agony, his hand firmly impaled within the Pishacha's jaws. He screamed again as the demon pulled backward, his hand and arm jerked painfully away, caught in a tug-o-war between the attachment at his shoulder and the creature's fangs.

Desperate, Dean tried to pull his hand away, but the Pishacha was like a pitbull; its head shaking back and forth as it seemed determined to rip the human morsel completely off. The pain was excruciating, the bones and tendons in his hand strained to the point of rupturing.

"Agghhhhhhhh… goddammit…" he swore as the demon finally relented, letting go of Dean's flesh and sinking back slightly on its haunches.

Gasping heavily, perspiration beading his brow, Dean curled the damaged hand against his chest. But the Pishacha didn't give him any time to recover.

"HantuM…" it hissed, surging back at the wounded hunter.

Dean reacted; instinct, training, and self-preservation all combining to spur him into action, into some sort of desperate defense. In a single movement, his right hand tore free one of the crossbow bolts that was splinting his broken leg and brought it upward. The Pishacha was looming over him once more, hideous fangs dripping a ghastly combination of blood and saliva.

With a heavy grunt, Dean swung the crossbow bolt up and around, plunging it into the demon's left eye, his right hand driving the aluminum rod inward until it struck something solid and caught. The Pishacha howled in pain, its head rearing back as its clawed hands fumbled to grasp the impaled arrow. But Dean held on, summoning up all the strength he had left to drive the bolt home.

The demon writhed like a gamefish caught on a line, its head thrashing back and forth as it sought to dislodge the shaft. In its torment, it lashed out, the back of its bony hand catching the side of Dean's jaw and snapping his head sideways with brain-numbing force.

He sank back against the interior door, his head throbbing and the pounding noise of his own heartbeat echoing between his ears. Dean wavered as he struggled to push himself upright and catch a glimpse of the demon, intent on knowing where it was in case it was preparing to attack him yet again.

Sighing, Dean relaxed slightly as he caught the last thin wisps of white fog drift lazily over the back seat. It was gone… for now.

He sagged back, too exhausted, too weary to remain upright. The cold from the outside seeped through the Chevy's metal and burrowed through the layers of clothing to chew at Dean's body. The shivering returned, tearing through him not unlike the demon's horrific bites.

Dean wrapped his arms around his chest, hugging himself until the chills finally abated. His left hand throbbed unrelentingly, the flesh in tatters, the underlying bones broken or at least dislocated.

"Probably get friggin' rabies or something," he muttered as he tucked it underneath his opposite armpit to staunch the bleeding.

The rank smell of blood filled the small interior, forcing Dean to take stock of his newly acquired injuries. Gingerly, he pulled away the remains of Sam's blood soaked hoodie, revealing long trenches in the skin covering his left arm. Intermixed between the deep lacerations were four jagged puncture wounds left behind by the Pishacha's fangs and nearly unrecognizable amid the brutalized flesh.

"Sonofabitch…" Dean cried out as he gently touched the arm.

Lacking anything to really clean and dress the wound, he settled for simply laying the torn piece of fleece back down, effectively hiding the injury if he couldn't fix it.

"Out of sight… out of mind… right?" But the quick flip-flop of his empty stomach told him that even out of his line of vision, the wound was more than still making itself known.

Dean crimped his eyes tightly closed, forcing himself to breathe slowly through his mouth. He knew the last thing he'd needed under the circumstances, was to have tangled with the demon. His body couldn't take much more abuse, worn thin by blood loss, trauma and lack of water.

He glanced down at his watch: Two-thirty and the sun was beginning to fade behind the western ridge of the mountains.

_Sammy's coming… he said he was just an hour or so away… didn't he?_

But whether ninety minutes or ninety years, Dean wasn't so sure it made a difference anymore. He was too tired mentally, too weak physically and it was only a matter of time before the demon reappeared to finish the remainder of its meal.

_Hang on, Dean…_the inner voice commanded.

"Sounds good in theory…" he answered aloud, even then allowing his eyes to slowly slide shut.

_Wake up! _Sam's voice echoed within his mind.

He snapped alert, eyes still struggling to focus, to remain open now that the adrenaline rush of the Pishacha's attack was over.

_Take inventory!_ His dad's deep tenor ordered. _Assess your situation, determine your plan of action!_

"I'm planning on dying here, Dad! Either the cold or the friggin' demon is gonna finish me off. And my plan… my plan is to try and leave a pretty corpse. But considering that I'm about to be either dinner for the Pishacha or Kibbles and Bits for the freakin' Hellhounds, I'm not thinking it matters much…" Dean shouted back angrily.

_Call me…_

"Call you? How the hell am I supposed to do that, Dad? I don't think my cell service has an afterlife plan."

_Call ME… Dean. _

"Huh?" he asked drowsily. "Shut up, Sammy. Just let me go to sleep…"

_You promised, Dean. You promised me… _

"Yeah, I know I did, bro… and I tried, I really tried… but…"

_Don't give up on me, Dean…_

"I'm not, Sammy. I'm doing this to save you…" Dean wearily replied to the voice.

_You're a selfish bastard, you know that?_

The elder Winchester recoiled at the vehemence contained in the pseudo-Sam voice. Sam was rarely that angry with him. In fact, the last time he could remember was back at the abandoned house outside of Lincoln, the morning after they had battled the seven demons and Sam had confronted him about his deal.

He'd pled his case to his brother then, steadfastly insisting that there was no way out of the crossroads pact, no way that he could be saved that didn't put Sam's life in forfeit. And his brother had accused him of being selfish, of putting him in the exact same situation that their dad had put Dean.

"So this is how I balance it all out, Sammy. This is how I make it all right…" Dean answered.

_Just call me, Dean… talk to me… I promised that I'd talk to you and keep you awake…_

Dean sighed. Bone weary and cold, he truly wanted to just close his eyes and let the void consume him. But it was Sam's voice that pulled him back from the edge.

Reaching for the cellular that lay nearby on the driver's side floorboard, he snagged it with a shaking hand and drew it up close to his face. Despite his blurred vision and the dimming light of the afternoon, Dean managed to pull up the last call.

"Last c-call…" he repeated, teeth chattering. "Now if that isn't ironic…"

Stabbing the send button with his thumb, Dean waited patiently for his brother's voice on the other end. He was still cold, his body shivering uncontrollably, but he didn't really notice the pain that had been wracking his body earlier. For the first time in the past twenty-four hours, Dean was blessedly numb, peacefully oblivious to his injuries.

"S-stay awake… just a li-little longer…" he commanded his fatigued mind. "Just l-long enough to sa-say goodbye…"

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Sam was making great time as he raced towards Dean—of course, it helped that he was pushing the odometer past seventy on the fifty-five mile per hour long stretch of road. Luckily, he hadn't come across any over-eager deputy or state trooper, figuring they probably thought any idiot willing to speed on the icy roads deserved what fate awaited them. Sam was okay with being that idiot, especially if it got him to Dean in time.

_It had to get him to Dean in time!_

He wouldn't accept any other outcome—he would get to his stubborn-ass sibling, get him out of his current predicament and only after Dean had been mended by the local hospital, would Sam kick his ass thoroughly for all the crap he was putting the younger Winchester through.

He'd been running way past the stage of being freaked ever since he'd heard that growl on the other end of the line. It could only mean one thing since Dean didn't—or couldn't—answer him: the Pishacha was making another appearance. Though Sam was doing his damnedest not to think it, he had to assume it had injured Dean even further. It was the only thing that made sense because Dean would have answered the last fifty times Sam had dialed him or he would have called his younger brother back as soon as the call had been disconnected.

So, yeah…Sam was freaked.

The hunter tore his gaze away from the road long enough to glance at the paper sack sitting on the passenger seat. He'd stopped at a town ten miles back and grabbed the sandalwood like Bobby had told him to. He prayed that the grizzled mechanic was right about the herb. It was the only thing that would save Dean and hopefully get the damn demon back into the box once and for all.

Picking up his phone once again, Sam dialed his brother's number, hoping this time would be different, that Dean would pick up. Instead, it went straight to voicemail, just as it had done every other time Sam had tried to call.

"Dammit!" Sam yelled as he threw the cellular down on the seat next to him.

Spotting a sign, he saw that he was a little over thirty miles from Brockway, the town Dean had mentioned during one of their first phone calls. A surge of relief went through Sam as he realized he was now much closer to getting to his sibling. It was a drive that should take at least twenty minutes or so, but Sam was willing to try to cut that time in half or less.

As he pressed his foot harder on the accelerator, Sam's phone began to ring. Without taking his eyes off the treacherous road, he reached over and plucked it off the seat.

"Dean?" Sam practically yelled into the phone.

"_S-Sam…" _Dean slurred.

_Oh, God—he's worse than before. He doesn't have much time left! _Sam's thoughts screamed at him as he gripped his phone tighter. "Yeah, Dean—it's me." _No, that didn't sound desperate at all…._

"_Co-cold, Sammy…"_

"I know it is, Dean, but you gotta hold on just a few minutes longer, okay, dude? I'm not very far away."

"_Can't…" _Dean's voice was almost a whisper.

Sam blinked rapidly, trying to clear the tears that threatened to fall. "Come on, man. Don't have me busting my ass for nothing here. I'll never forgive you if you give up on me now."

"_S-Sorry…"_

"No, Dean—you don't get to apologize. You have nothing to apologize for," Sam griped. "You can do that when I get there but I'm not going to listen to it now. Do you understand me?"

There was silence on the other end.

_Nononononononono! _"Dean!"

"_Wh-what?"_

"You've gotta keep talking to me, dude," Sam pleaded as he swallowed down the lump in his throat. "What about the Grand Canyon, huh? You told me you wanted to see that, remember?"

"_Yeah…"_

"We'll do that, Dean. As soon as I get your ass to the hospital and they take care of you, okay? We'll take that trip. Hell, we'll do anything that you wanna do but only if you promise to hang on."

"_B-bad joke, d-dude…"_

Sam had to laugh at that. "You're going to stay with me, right?"

"_Sure…" _Sam had to strain to hear Dean's voice. _"Sammy…li-listen to… Bobby. He'll…wa-watch out f-for… you."_

_Just a little further, Sam. Come on—you're almost there. _"No! Don't you dare say good-bye to me you friggin' jerk!" Sam took a deep breath to calm himself. How dare Dean pull the good-bye card with him? He wasn't allowed to get off that easily. "Please, Dean…I'm not ready to lose you yet. I need you, Dean. I still need my big brother."

Sam could only pick up the sound of faint breathing as his eyes spied a tow truck pulled over to the side of the road as dusk began to settle around the area. Catching a quick glimpse to the side of it, he spotted the breached guardrail where the Impala must have gone through.

"Dean, I'm here!" The younger Winchester shouted into the phone. Barely putting the car into park, Sam jumped out and ran over to embankment, nearly retching as he spotted the carnage next to the truck. Blood and guts peppered the side of the vehicle as a large glob of what Sam assumed used to be human dyed the snow a deep crimson.

If this is what Dean had been dealing with the entire time, then it truly was a wonder that his brother wasn't already dead. _No wonder Dad had to have help the first time he dealt with this damn demon._

Tearing his gaze away, Sam held on to the guardrail as he peered over to see the gleaming Impala perched precariously on the edge below. He felt as if he'd been sucker-punched as the full weight of Dean's predicament finally hit him.

"What the hell did you get yourself into, Dean?"


	10. But I Would Rather Be Hanging On

**We're just gonna say "Happy Holidays" and leave it at that...**

**SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN**

**Livin' on the Edge—Chapter 10**

**But I Would Rather Be Hanging On**

Sam could only lean against the guardrail, mesmerized at the sight below him. He couldn't see how the Impala had managed to keep from falling below. He knew Dean wasn't one to think someone—or something—was watching out for him, but Sam would be damned if there wasn't someone now.

There was no other way around it—the car was old, built of nothing but heavy-duty steel. Sure, it had gotten creamed by the demon-possessed truck driver almost two years ago, but it had somehow survived _this_. Any other car would have gone sailing over the cliff, but not Dean's baby. In fact, from Sam's vantage point, he didn't really see any significant damage to the black vehicle.

But then again, Sam hadn't looked inside. He didn't know how bad off his brother was and that snapped him out of his reverie. He needed to get to Dean and fast, especially if the last phone call was any indication. He could figure a way out of the mess as soon as he made sure that Dean was okay—that was all that mattered.

Racing back to the lifted car, Sam grabbed his bag from the passenger seat. Luckily, he had everything he needed, managing to grab a few things from Bobby's in his haste to get to Dean. Digging inside of it, Sam snagged the flashlight and flicked it on to make sure it was working properly. When a bright beam cut through the early evening, Sam smiled and seized the paper bag containing the sandalwood. He had no guarantees that the Pishacha wouldn't make another appearance, but he also wasn't going to take that chance.

Especially not where Dean was concerned.

Hefting his bag on his shoulder, Sam made his way back to the damaged guardrail. Shining the light down the embankment, he slowly coasted down, slipping a couple of times in his hurry to get to his injured sibling. Dead silence greeted Sam's ears and the young hunter had to admit it was a bit unnerving. There should have been some night sounds—bugs buzzing, an owl hooting, something, but there was nothing.

Swinging the light in front of him, the bile from earlier threatened to reappear as Sam spotted a chunk of flesh, rigidly frozen, laying in front of his feet. A sudden chill that had nothing to do with the cold ravaged Sam's body—_No, please, tell me that's not Dean!_

Clumsily, making his way to the driver's side door, Sam aimed the light inside, his heart returning to a somewhat normal beating rhythm when he spotted his brother slumped against the door.

"Oh, thank God."

Sam knocked on the window, not caring if he scared the crap out of the injured man. Any reaction would be welcome at this point.

"Dean, it's me. I'm gonna get in there and help you, okay?"

No response.

_Great, now I get an unconscious Dean to deal with…this is gonna be fun._

Sighing, the shaggy-haired man stepped back from the car, seeing how hard it would be to get to the passenger side. No way in hell could he climb in behind Dean and work his way up front for two reasons—one, the Impala could get loose and continue its trek down the mountain and two, no way was he getting his fifteen foot long legs over that seat without twisting himself into a few different contortions.

As he was walking towards the back of the car, something shiny in the snow caught his eyes. Squatting down, he moved a fine layer of snow to see that it was the keys to the Impala. _Dean must have tried to make his way to the trunk…son of a bitch!_

Scooping them up, Sam figured he might as well get a few more supplies from the back hatch—namely a couple of weapons, the first aid kit and a blanket they'd taken from one of the past motels they'd stayed at. His arms laden, Sam then carefully made his way to the passenger side with relative ease. Transferring the items to one hand, he managed to get the door open with the other.

The first thing Sam was aware of was the smell of blood—it was overpowering and it almost threatened to knock him back. There was only one person the blood could belong to since Sam knew there was no way in hell the Pishacha could bleed—Dean. Pointing the light throughout the front interior of the Chevy, Sam could pick out the patches of crimson and it made his blood run cold.

It again made him wonder how his brother had managed to hold on for as long as he had.

Pushing items out of his way, but being careful not to jostle Dean, Sam maneuvered himself inside and shut the door in order to block out the cold. Not that it wasn't freezing inside already, but why make it any worse for them?

"Dean, can you hear me?" Sam asked softly, afraid his voice would startle Dean causing him to injure himself further.

Dean didn't even give a flicker of awareness.

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, fear almost threatening to overtake him, Sam reached out a shaking hand. Part of him knew that he needed to check for a pulse, to make sure Dean was still alive but another part of him was afraid to know that, afraid that he'd been too late to save his sibling. Pushing that fear away, Sam gently placed his fingers against Dean's carotid artery, letting out a huge sigh of relief when he found one there.

"Oh, thank God," Sam whispered.

Just then Dean let out a faint groan.

"Dean!"

Dean's lips barely moved but Sam could have sworn he heard Dean say his name.

"Yeah, Dean…it's me. I need you to open your eyes for me, okay?"

Long eyelashes fluttered, but his eyes refused to open, whether it was impossible or Dean was being stubborn, Sam didn't know.

Sam let out a huff. "Come on, Dean. Open them—now."

"Bo…ssy," Dean slurred.

"You're damn right I am," Sam agreed. "Now, do it."

It took a lot of effort but finally Dean was able to open his eyes to peer at his sibling. From the way he was looking at him, Sam was pretty sure Dean was having a hard time focusing.

Reaching into his bag, the young hunter pulled out a bottle of water. Pulling the top off, he reached behind Dean, helping him to sit up. "Here, drink this, Dean," Sam offered, pressing the bottle to his lips.

Dean swallowed down a mouthful greedily, choking on it.

Sam pulled it away. "You've gotta slow down, Dean. I'm not gonna give it to you unless you do that, okay?"

Dean fixed him with a glare that came off more pathetic than anything and nodded. Satisfied, Sam put the bottle to his lips once more and Dean drank from it, calmer this time. When the bottle was three-fourths empty, he pushed it away.

"Thanks," he whispered, leaning his head back against the window.

"Yeah, don't mention it," Sam replied, recapping the lid. "Are you ready for me to take a look?"

Dean shook his head. "We need to…get out of…here, Sammy. Before that…bastard comes back."

Sam nodded towards the windshield where darkness was now completely enveloping them. "There's no way to do that, Dean. Not tonight, anyway. We're gonna have to hole up here until morning, then maybe I can find some way to get you and the Impala back to the top. Until then, and until I can get you to a hospital, I need to patch you up."

"We could…try."

"Are you not hurt enough already, Dean? If I tried to do anything to get you out of here now, it would be suicide." Sam let out a sigh. "Bobby's on his way, he should be here tomorrow as a matter of fact. We wait on him, okay?"

Dean nodded weakly.

A wry smile crossed Sam's face. "Besides, do you really trust me enough to get your car back up there in one piece?"

"Hell…no."

"Yeah, I didn't think so." Sam grabbed the first aid kit from the floorboard. "Okay, so give me a status report here."

Dean's eyes began to slowly close.

"Hell no, Dean. You don't get to sleep on me now. You've done that enough already." Sam lightly tapped his brother on the cheek to get him awake. "Tell me where you're hurt."

"Everywhere," Dean muttered.

"Give me specifics, Dean."

"Right shoulder…both arms…left hand hurts like a bitch."

Sam shined the beam of the light to Dean's hand which was curled protectively against his chest. Teeth marks were clearly visible even under the blood and the bruising that was turning into a deep purplish-blue color. "God damn, Dean…"

Dean cracked a grin. "Oh…and let's not forget…what started it all." He glanced at his right leg and winced as Sam turned his attention to it, gently probing it with his fingers. "Dude…do you mind?"

"Sorry," Sam murmured, his gaze never leaving the busted leg. "You splinted it with the crossbow bolts?"

"The only thing…I had."

"There's only one—where's the other one?"

"Let's just say…the demon is less one eye now."

Sam nodded, impressed with his sibling's resourcefulness. If anything, John Winchester certainly taught them how to survive under any given situation. Reaching into his bag, Sam grabbed the bottle of Jack he'd managed to snag from Bobby's before he left. "Here, I got you something to dim the pain a bit."

Dean reached out his right hand, taking the bottle from Sam. Chugging down a hearty swig, he nodded at his little brother. "Just get it done."

Sam made as quick work as possible tending to Dean's injuries as best as he could, wincing every time Dean let out a cry of pain. He couldn't begin to imagine the amount Dean was in and for a fleeting moment, selfishly hoped he never would.

Finally, Sam finished re-splinting Dean's leg and sat back in the seat glancing thoughtfully at the older man. "I saw the tow-truck up there. I'm guessing that's the Ed you were telling me about."

Dean nodded as he handed the bottle back to Sam. "I tried to warn him away…wouldn't listen."

"I'm sorry."

The injured hunter said nothing as he let out a yawn.

"Listen, you need to get some rest. I've gotta go set out this sandalwood around the car."

"What for?"

"Bobby said it's supposed to keep the Pishacha at bay. He said he found it in some of Dad's notes so I guess it's worth a shot, right?"

"Not…alone."

Sam frowned at the fear in his brother's voice. "Dean, if you need me, I'll be right outside—"

"Not me…you. I don't want you…going out there…alone."

"Dean, I'll be okay," Sam assured him. "I'll be as fast as I can."

Dean said nothing as he succumbed to the fatigue. Sam waited until he was sure Dean was asleep before quietly exiting the car with the herb. Working as carefully as he could, he began to spread the sandalwood around the car.

"_Svaatanya…"_

Sam straightened up, frowning, as the faint whisper reached his ears. Staying absolutely still, he strained his ears, listening for it again, finally letting the blame fall on his imagination when he heard nothing after a minute or so. Returning to his task, Sam set about spreading more sandalwood around the Impala.

"_BubhukSaa…"_

"Okay, that definitely wasn't my imagination," Sam muttered, glancing around him, eyes alert for any sudden movement. "If I didn't know any better, I would swear that was Sanskrit."

_The Pishacha!_

Forgetting the task for now and trading the bag for the flask of holy water in his jacket pocket, Sam uncapped the lid, poised to spray the liquid on the ancient demon. Before Sam could turn a full circle, it appeared with a snarl. Jumping back, Sam almost escaped the creature's sharp claws. Feeling an intense, burning pain on his arm, the young hunter knew the thing had broken through skin.

Pushing the pain aside, Sam swung the flask in an arc, dousing the Pishacha with the holy liquid. It let out a painful screech and before it could fully recover, Sam jumped into the car, intent on protecting the interior and Dean from the monster. _No way in hell is it getting another shot at Dean._

Sam ignored Dean's protests as he placed the remaining sandalwood throughout the car. Awkwardly climbing into the backseat, Sam was about to deposit the fragrant wood when the Hindi demon began to materialize. Not wasting any time, Sam launched into the mantra.

"_Aum…Bhuh Bhuva Svah…Tat Savitur Varenyam…Bhargo Devasya Dheemahi…Dhiyo Yo nah Prachodayat."_

Glaring at the young hunter, it let out a horrible bellow before disappearing. Sam let go of the breath he'd been holding and quickly spread out the rest of the herb in case it made a quick recovery. When that was done, he leaned against the back seat, closing his eyes in exhaustion.

"Sam?"

Sam opened one eye to see that Dean was peering at him quizzically through half-opened eyes. "It's okay, Dean."

"What happened?"

"Nothing. Go back to sleep," Sam replied, closing his eye.

"Liar…"

"Yeah, well, that makes two of us, doesn't it?"

When he didn't hear anything else from his sibling, Sam opened his eyes to see Dean had once again lost the battle with sleep. Using the light of the moon, Sam pulled his injured arm out of his jacket to see the damage the Pishacha had caused. Three long, shallow scratches greeted him, the blood already congealed.

_If I hadn't managed to jump out of the way in time…_Sam didn't allow himself to finish the thought as his cell phone began to ring in his pocket. Pulling it out, he answered it before it could wake Dean up.

"Bobby?"

"_Sam, did you make it to him?" _Bobby's gruff voice asked and Sam could hear the concern underneath it.

"Yeah, I'm here, Bobby. And it's lucky that I got here when I did…"

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

The first rays of the new day crested the nearby ridge and beamed through the windshield. Sam groaned grumpily, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the offending light. It was the first real sunshine in the past couple of days, the sky devoid of its usual gray and impending storm clouds. As the interior of the Impala began to warm, he smiled thankfully. Maybe this was a good omen, their luck catching a break. But as he glanced over at his still sleeping brother, Dean's ashen features told Sam that they weren't out of the woods yet.

Shifting to ease the horrendous cramp in his back, he took stock of their surroundings now that he could see better in the daylight. If anything, the scene inside the Impala was worse now than in the darkness, the dried blood splatters coating the seat, the dash and the header only that much more garish.

Sam sucked in a breath and turned away. Dean was alive, albeit in awful shape, that was enough for the younger sibling.

"It's morning?" Dean's voice croaked weakly.

Sam's attention went immediately to his brother. "Yeah, that big orange ball out there is usually a dead giveaway," he teased.

"Bitch!"

"Hey, that's 'saving your ass bitch' to you. Seriously, how are you feeling?"

"Like I went over a cliff in my car and then got half eaten by a pissed-off demon," Dean snarked back with a groan.

Sam laughed. If Dean could be a smartass, then he must be alright, relatively speaking that is.

Leaning forward, he began to check the splint bracing either side of his brother's leg. Satisfied that his work last night was still intact, he moved on to the other bandages adorning Dean's body. While the wounds on his brother's hand and arm had seeped more, the gauze wasn't saturated. That was some small relief. Finishing his once-over, Sam grasped the sides of Dean's face and turned it side to side, watching as dark pupils surrounded by deep green constricted when exposed to the bright sunlight.

"Dude, head's fine, pupils are fine, now get those gigantic paws off the side of my face. You'd think you were gonna kiss me or something," Dean grumbled.

"Just checking, you were pretty out of it last night," Sam answered, letting go and settling back against the seat.

In truth, it had been one of the longest nights of Sam's life, sitting there in the dark, just watching his unconscious brother and waiting for the demon to attack. The hours had dragged on like a stubborn child refusing to go to bed, only Dean's soft groans of pain to break the utter silence leaving Sam to wonder how alone and deserted his brother must have felt being trapped here on the side of a mountain, just waiting. No wonder Dean had been ready to give up. Even with his sibling a mere two foot away, Sam had never felt so cut off from the world as he had last night.

"So, we getting out of here soon?" Dean asked as he attempted to shift himself.

Sam helped pull him further upright, holding the edges of the familiar hoodie until Dean was able to open his eyes and sit without swaying.

"What's your hurry?" the taller man replied. "Figured you were just getting kinda comfortable in here. And hell, you couldn't buy that view."

"I'll pass," Dean groaned. "Granted the 'view' isn't half bad, I just don't care to become a permanent part of the scenery around here."

Sam nodded in agreement.

"So, my friend hasn't shown his face again? Bobby's magic seasonings worked?"

"Looks like… but I heard something moving around out there last night, so short of a mountain goat, I think it was your buddy."

"I bet its royally pissed-off now. It hasn't had anything good to eat for the past few hours, was probably getting used to my tasty hide," Dean joked.

"I wouldn't say that…" Sam answered, gently rubbing the bandage wrapped around his arm. Dean caught the movement and jerked forward, his eyes wide with concern even though the move cost him.

"Sammy! You okay? You didn't tell me that bastard got you," his brother asked frantically, his own breath coming in short gasps as he fought against the sudden wave of pain.

Sam waved him off with one hand while the other gently but firmly pressed Dean back against the driver's side door.

"See, that's the problem right there, Dean, you worrying about me instead of yourself. And look what it gets you. Do you ever just think about taking care of yourself first? Do you ever think that if you don't, you won't be around…" Sam paused, his breath caught in his chest. "You won't be around to watch out for me when I need it."

It was raw emotion thrown out, thrown at, his brother. Inside, it was what he'd been feeling ever since learning the truth about why he was miraculously alive, and about the deal Dean agreed to that made that fact possible. But other than their brief confrontation back in Lincoln, Sam had been reluctant to voice any of it. He was afraid of losing Dean, of running out of time long before they found any solution. And Dean making light of his life, seeming to not care, giving up before they were even at the two-minute warning, well it wasn't something that Sam was dealing with very well.

He was scared. Scared of losing his brother, scared of succumbing to the demon blood that Azazel showed him was inside, scared of being alone without the steady rock that Dean represented. Maybe this was all part of some master plan to separate his sibling from him, his one hope for avoiding the pull of going dark side. But then, Hell didn't need to go to such lengths. Not when it seemed like Dean could just as easily take himself out with his carelessness or foolhardy behavior.

Dean gulped loud enough to be audible within the now-quiet confines of the car, swallowing hard as he sat there with his eyes cast down toward his lap.

Sam felt bad, the last thing his brother needed was some sort of guilt trip. There'd be enough opportunity for that once he had him to safety and patched up. "Dean, look…" Sam began softly. "I didn't mean to…"

"S'all right, Sammy. Can we just not talk about _that_ right now? There'll be plenty of time for discussing all my faults when we get the hell out of here," Dean covered.

_Good ol' Dean,_ Sam thought to himself. _Still taking responsibility, still shouldering the burden, and still burying everything too sensitive for him to deal with._ He felt lousy for dumping all that out on his brother, especially here and now when he should have been focusing on how fortunate he was that Dean was even still alive.

"So, that sandalroot crap…" Dean began.

"Sandalwood," Sam corrected.

"Whatever…it smells like that foofoo junk you use in your hair… making me dizzy here just smelling it."

"That would be the blood loss, Dean. Or the concussion, take your pick," Sam threw back.

Dean scowled at him and the younger man had to laugh at how easily, even under the most dire conditions, they could fall into their usual banter.

"Well, can it protect us once we're out of the car? Will it repel that toothy sonofabitch?"

Sam shrugged. "Bobby didn't really go into details, but somehow I don't think so. And besides, there's not much left of it. Not like we can coat ourselves in it or something."

He watched as Dean cringed.

"You okay?" Sam asked, seeing the pinched expression on Dean's face even before his brother's hand snaked out to grab the top of his broken leg.

For several interminable seconds Dean remained silent, the color, gray as it was, draining from his face as he fought back verbalizing his pain. When he finally spoke, the earlier strength seemed gone from his voice.

"This… is no… good… Sammy. We're not… gonna get…out of here with… me…"

"We will, Dean. I promised I'd get you out of this and I will." _This and that goddamn deal. I'll get you out of that too… somehow._

Dean slumped back against the door, his meager strength waning. "I… know, Sammy."

But there was defeat again in his voice, or resignation, either of which Sam didn't like the sound of.

"Look, I'm gonna go topside and scope out that tow truck, see if there's anything useful in there," Sam stated determinedly.

"No!" Dean shouted out, his eyes flaring with panic. "You can't."

"Dean, calm down. Bobby should be here any minute and I've got to find a way to get you up the side of that cliff. There's no way you're gonna be able to climb it."

"You got no one to watch your back, dude. And that evil sonofabitch is faster than a wendigo on speed and twice as nasty," the elder hunter pleaded.

"I'll be okay. I've got a loaded shotgun and plenty of Holy Water. It'll be enough to keep it off me."

"No, it won't and that's just a stupid idea anyway. That thing is getting a helluva lot stronger the longer it's out, not to mention that it's had a couple of meals. Be smart, Sam. You _need_ someone to watch your back." _I need to watch your back,_ went unspoken. "Besides, I need you to watch mine too. What if you're up there and Svetlana decides to come back for seconds? Just set me up outside with the shotgun and I can at least cover you. I'm still a better shot half-dead than you are on your best day," Dean stated, forcing a lopsided grin that was weaker than his usual confident smirk.

Sam considered his brother. There was a true tinge of fear and worry in Dean's rationale, not that Sam would ever call him on it. Still, there was some logic too. He just didn't like the idea of his already injured brother being moved or exposed. It was still cold outside despite the bright sunlight, not to mention that Dean would lose the relative protection of the sandalwood encased Impala.

"Alright," he agreed reluctantly. "Let's get a few extra layers on you so you stay warm and let me recheck that splint and bandages one more time."

"Okay, mom. Bundle me up nice and snuggly…" Dean snarked back, his small victory displayed in the broad smile on his face.

***

It ended up being much more difficult than either of them had anticipated, getting him out of the Impala and stationed carefully against the rear fender. By the time they were done with the move Dean was sweating profusely despite the bitter chill and had his teeth clenched tight enough that he briefly thought he might snap one or two in half.

"Still thinking this was a good idea?" Sam asked sarcastically.

"You'll…t-thank m-me… when you… d-don't become P-pishacha-chow," he stammered back between shivers.

Dean gripped the pump-action closer to his chest. He'd wanted the hard comfort of his favored saw'd off, but gave in and took Sam's Remington when his brother reminded him how much easier, not to mention faster, the pump would be. _Leave it to Sam to use my protectiveness against me…_ he thought with a smirk.

He shifted nervously, the cold rocks beneath his butt stabbing into one cheek a minor discomfort compared to the nagging fear chewing at the back of his neck. He knew the demon was out there, just waiting. And Dean knew that it would go after his brother the first chance it had. The Pishacha was smart, it knew enough to take out the strongest prey first, leave the weakened, wounded one to come back to snack on later.

"That's me..." Dean admitted ruefully. "The lame duck…"

He stretched out his injured leg with a groan while flexing the fingers on his left hand to try and re-establish some dexterity in them. At his side lay his Bowie, retrieved by Sam from the back seat along with the damaged cursebox. At his left lay his silver flask, newly refilled with holy water as well as an additional box of salt rounds. He was as prepared as he could be, not that he thought for a minute that any of the paraphernalia would put the demon down for good. But still, he could at least try to provide some cover for Sam, or die trying.

"Okay, you good? I'll be right back," Sam asked before bending down and attempting to tuck a thick blanket around Dean's lower body.

The elder sibling smacked the larger man's hand away with a grumble. "Cut it out, Sam. I'm not going to freeze to death now. Besides, I need to be able to move, not be wrapped up like a friggin' baby," Dean snapped.

"Don't move, Dean," his brother ordered, ignoring his protest as he hitched a gearbag onto his shoulder and moved toward the base of the cliff.

Dean watched Sam's every move, wincing as Sam scraped the flesh off his knuckles on a jagged rock, holding his breath when his brother's footing slipped and he dropped a foot or two before steadying himself. The climb itself wasn't that far, wasn't even all that sheer, but from Dean's perspective, it looked like Pike's Peak. When Sam finally reached the top and threw his legs onto the ground above, Dean let out a sigh of relief.

From his vantage, he could see Sam's upper body and head, so long as his brother remained close to the edge of the road. But as Sam moved toward Ed's abandoned truck, he eluded Dean's field of vision.

"Sam?" Dean called out after a minute.

Another minute went by with neither an answer nor any glimpse of his brother.

"SAMMY!" he then yelled.

But still, there was no response.

Dean pressed the butt of the shotgun down onto the ground, prepared to use the weapon as a crutch if need be. He really had no idea how he was going to get to the top of the cliff to reach Sam, but he knew with every fiber of his being that he would.

Up onto one leg, he was nearly to his feet when Sam's shaggy head appeared at the ledge. "Dean! What the hell are you doing?"

His head swung up, startled but less panicked for seeing that his brother was okay. "Uh… umm… just thought I'd stretch my leg?" he offered with a grin.

He watched Sam shake his head, not caring if his brother believed him or not. Sinking back to the ground, he let out a relieved sigh and took up the shotgun once again.

"I found something up here," Sam shouted down to him with a pleased smile.

"You gonna share? I'm not really in the mood for twenty questions," Dean groused.

"In the truck, there's a board," the younger hunter began.

"A board? Oh my god, Sam, really? A board. I'm saved now."

He didn't have to see Sam's face to know that his brother was glaring at him. Dean didn't care. It was only a matter of time before the Pishacha returned, he just knew it. He could hear the clock ticking just as surely as if it was a timer on a bomb. Tick… tick… tick…

_Coming to get you, Dean. Time's running out…_

"You know, you're more than welcome to climb your ass up the side of this rock. I'd like to see you try," Sam retorted.

For a minute, it was tempting, if for no other reason than the wipe the smug smile off his brother's face. But as a random twinge flared through his shoulder and leg, he knew that all his bravado and determination was nothing but show.

"Okay, so this board, what are you going to do with it?" _Besides want to shove it up my ass for being such a jerk?_

"I can use it like a backboard, like Fire-rescue does. I can strap you down to it, keep your leg from getting jostled and then use the winch on the tow truck to pull you up the side," Sam announced.

"Sam, I dunno," Dean yelled back, looking up at the side of the cliff. If it seemed high before, it suddenly looked even loftier now. Dean's fear of flying quickly came home as he imagined himself lashed to some rickety board and sailing off the side of the mountain as the cable on the truck snapped.

"Come on, Dean. It'll work. And besides, it's the only way. I can't strap you to my back and there's no way you can get up here on your own."

"We could wait on Bobby…" Dean pleaded.

"No, Dean. This is how we're doing it, now suck it up. I'm gonna lower the board and then I'll be down to get you settled," Sam insisted, darting away from the edge before Dean had the chance to protest any further.

Sinking back to the cold metal of the Impala, he chanced another look up the side of the granite wall, his stomach churning at the thought of all the ways this could go wrong. Suddenly, being devoured by the Pishacha seemed less of a threat than having his body smashed two hundred feet below.

Before he had the chance to think about it more, the thick plank appeared over the edge and slowly began to lower down toward him. Dean grimaced as the board bounced off the jagged outcroppings of rock on its way down, his imagination telling him that he was likely to fare no better.

Shortly after the length of wood reached the bottom and came to a rest on the ledge, Sam soon followed behind. Dean was impressed, watching as his brother deftly made his way back down to his side. Without stopping to speak, Sam dragged the board over to Dean's side, shifting it until it lay as level as possible on the ground.

He moved over to Dean, snagging the blanket from where it had rested across the older man's legs. Lifting it up, he then grabbed Dean's Bowie and began cutting it into long strips.

"Hey!" Dean objected. "I thought that was to keep me warm?"

"It was and now it's to keep you secured to that board," Sam informed him matter-of-factly.

Dean still wasn't pleased but as Sam worked on deliberately, he found himself slightly impressed with his brother's ingenuity and he relaxed a little, his trust bolstered.

Sam moved to the back of the Impala and returned with one of their sleeping bags. He then set about to gouge out several holes on each side of the board and began running the lengths of cut fabric through them. When he was done, he stepped back, admiring his creation as Dean looked on with a renewed tinge of fear.

"All right, let's get you inside there," Sam ordered, coming back to Dean's side.

Transferring the injured hunter over to the board was a repeat of moving him from the Impala. Dean did his best to hide his pain and apprehension, determined not to let Sam know how unsure he was about this whole plan.

He felt like a mummy, stuffed into the sleeping bag, his movements restricted as his brother began running the straps across his arms and legs and securing them into the holes he'd notched out. Dean fidgeted against the bindings, hating how claustrophobic he suddenly felt.

"Hold still, dude," Sam commanded, cinching another length of blanket tighter across Dean's ankles.

"You're getting off on this aren't you? Always thought you had a bondage streak buried in there somewhere," Dean snarked, trying to mask his panic.

"I think the thin air and blood loss has gotten to you, brother. You're obviously confusing me with your kinky sex life," Sam returned.

"You're just jealous!"

"Hardly! Hell, I still haven't gotten that last image of you bumping ugly, and I do emphasize the word ugly, with the Doublemint Twins back at that motel."

"Like I said… jealous…" Dean repeated.

Sam tied off the last of the knots and rose, towering over his prone brother. "Okay, that ought to do it," he announced.

"Ought? That's not exactly comforting."

"Dude, I didn't bust my ass driving over a thousand miles just to drop you down the side of a mountain now. Will you just trust me for once?"

Dean closed his eyes and nodded. He did trust Sam, no doubt about it, he was just less confident on the strength of the board and the blanket strips.

"You sure we shouldn't wait on Bobby?" he asked once more.

"Sure, no problem, and while we're waiting, maybe I can find some ketchup to pour all over you for when the demon comes back for another meal. Better yet, maybe I can take that truck into the nearest town and find the damn thing a nice Chianti to have with your liver and some fava beans," Sam shot back.

Dean laughed out loud despite the ache that resulted in his abused ribs. He saw Sam's look of incredulity, his brother simultaneously confused and perturbed by his sudden outburst.

"What the hell, Dean?"

"Dude, you just quoted Hannibal Lector… I'm sooo proud. Okay, okay… let's just do this, before I change my mind."

***

He kept his eyes crimped tightly closed the entire way up the side of the mountain, his one brief glimpse of the open space before him enough to make his stomach twist violently. It felt like forever, each stutter in the lift, each jerk on the line sending another wave of panic through the young hunter.

When he finally reached the top, the cloudless blue sky appearing before his face, the firm earth beneath him, Dean chanced taking a deep breath. He was back on top, back on terra firma, no longer dangling on the edge of a cliff awaiting certain death as his car plummeted down the rest of the mountain.

From his vantage, he could finally see how far the Chevy had dropped, could see the sheerness of the cliff and the narrowness of the ledge the Impala had come to rest on. It was a miracle that the shelf had been there, even more of a miracle that he had survived. Dean wasn't a God-fearing man, but just then, looking from the extreme drop up to the brilliant sunshine, he acknowledged that someone or something was watching out for him.

"You are one lucky sonofabitch, Dean Winchester…" he mumbled aloud.

He peeked over his shoulder, straining to find Sam when he first heard the low growl.

_HantuM…_

There was no mistaking the sound, no attributing it to some errant wind or trick of the mind. Dean knew that tone all too well. The Pishacha!

_HantuM…. grasamaanaH…_

"SAMMY!" Dean yelled at the top of his lungs.

He struggled against his cocoon, his head whipping around wildly as he sought out the demon.

"SAMMY! Get your ass over here… NOW!"

It was one thing to sacrifice himself to keep his brother safe, but it was another entirely to go out like a served up meal. No way was he willing to go down without a fight now, especially when his rescue was nearly complete.

_HantuM…_ the demon snarled again, closer now and as Dean glanced above his head, he caught a whiff of rancid meat and stagnate blood.

It was close, he could nearly feel its fetid breath blowing down on his face. Dean thrashed against the straps, writhed against the thick sleeping bag. Where the hell was Sam? Had the damn thing already gotten his brother?

_Pratikaara_…_ grasamaanaH…_

And there it was, standing over him, a single red orb glaring at him lethally, fangs bared and dripping as it salivated over its meal.

Dean managed to get his right arm free, pulling it out from where it was tucked against his body. He had no weapon, not even his Bowie, and Sam had re-splinted his leg with salvaged pieces of wood from a crate he'd retrieved from his dad's storage shed.

"Come and get me you sorry sonofabitch. I hope you choke to death on my bones," he growled defiantly.

The Pishacha leaned in, slowly, almost as if it relished the prolonged torment of its leisurely attack. His heart hammering in his chest, his mind filled with visions of his brother torn apart, devoured, dead; Dean closed his eyes and waited for his own death as the sharp fangs closed in.

It never came.

With a banshee-like screech and a blur of movement, the Pishacha was suddenly driven backwards, emitting its own bellow of defiance as it was torn away from its intended meal. Dean's eyes flew open, tracking the activity even as he dimly realized that he was still alive and had all his parts reasonably intact.

A rough grunt drew his attention as he strained to pull himself free from the board. Dean cursed loudly, not caring how badly he was damaging his already injured body. Just beyond him, Sam was rolling underneath the demon's flashing claws. He had to get free.

Sam's sudden yelp of pain spurred him on further, providing adrenaline to sapped muscles when Dean thought he had nothing left. He rolled to his side, fingertips clawing for purchase at snow-covered payment as he pulled himself from the trappings.

_Just a few feet away… too damn far… hang on, Sammy!_

The Pishacha screeched as it was propelled backward, a cloud of steam rising from its form. On the ground beneath it, Dean watched as Sam rose up on one elbow, a flask held shakily in his hand, his eyes warily watching the demon. He was covered in small bites and scratches, his outer clothing shredded courtesy of the Pishacha's razor-like claws.

He was nearly to his feet when Sam appeared at his side, breathing heavily and bleeding. Dean felt his brother's hand slide underneath his arm, pulling him the rest of the way up and supporting him.

"We gotta get to the truck, we'll be safe there," Sam commanded. "Can you make it?"

"Just try not to get in my way," Dean replied stalwartly.

They staggered forward a half dozen steps, the silent tow truck seeming miles away as they sought refuge from the next attack. Dean could tell his brother was hurt, could feel the warmth from Sam's blood coating his fingers as he grasped at his brother's arm. He knew the bite of the demon all too well, likewise knowing that Sam was probably in pain if by nothing more than the taut posture of his brother's body.

He cursed himself, hating that he'd ended up in this situation, despising even more that he'd endangered Sam. Even the searing ache in his own broken body was minor in comparison to the condemning guilt he felt knowing Sam was injured, and because of him.

"Just a little further, Dean…" Sam huffed. "We'll be safe inside the…"

His brother's sentence was cut off as the Pishacha materialized again in front of them, its lethal claws slicing through the air as it swiped at the hunters.

"SAMMY!" Dean shouted as one of the thing's deformed hands connected with the taller man's body, Sam's supportive grip on Dean immediately lost as the younger man was sent sprawling to the hard ground.

Without thinking, Dean launched himself at the demon, his own hands ripping and tearing at anything he could grab as the creature bore down on his brother. Sam's muffled yell to "run" barely registered as he flung himself at the thing's back.

It was surreal, like riding on one of those mechanical bulls, except this time the "bull" had sharp teeth and claws, snapping and flashing in every direction as it tried to dislodge the rider. Dean wasn't sure how many times the demon bucked and spun, the scenery around him blurring as he simultaneously held on and tore at the thing's hide.

He was vaguely aware that Sam had crawled out from under the Pishacha, could see his shaggy-haired sibling stumble away and snatch something from the ground nearby. It didn't really matter as dizziness and exhaustion took over. He was spent, his short burst of strength waning, but the only choice at this point was to either hang on or let go. Indecision clouded his already fogged mind. Sam was safe, mostly, and Dean's only focus was to keep the damn demon at bay long enough to ensure his brother's escape.

He heard Sam yell something at him a split second before there was a loud crash of thunder and he felt himself propelled through the air, landing with a bone-jarring thud at the side of the nearby guardrail. He panicked at the thought of a repeat performance, visions of falling over the edge and tumbling down the side of the mountain vaguely ironic considering he'd just made it back to the top.

There was another loud blast and the Pishacha turned away from its downed prey with a snarl, its attention now on the greater threat. Dean could do nothing but lie limply at the road's edge as the creature stalked toward Sam.

_HantuM…_

Dean tried to yell, wanting to call out and get the demon's attention back on him, wanting to command his brother to just leave and save himself, but there was just no air left to form the syllables.

His eyes drooping, darkness tugging at the edges of consciousness, Dean could only watch as the Pishacha slowly advanced on his brother. He fought to get up once more as Sam darted for the truck, the demon right on his heels. He cried out when the thing followed his brother into the cab, a spray of blood erupting against the rear window.

There was one final bang, more subtle than the discharge of a shotgun, but still echoing off the nearby walls of rock. Then it all went silent, only the movement of random snowflakes as they drifted lazily, landing and dissolving into the tiny pools of blood bore any evidence of the violence that occurred.

Dean blinked slowly, staring blankly upward as the white flecks gently kissed his lids and cheeks.

"Sam…" he whispered, his eyes sliding shut, the silence complete.


	11. Something's Right With the World Today

**Well, guys...here is the last chapter! **

**Tree and I really want to thank everyone who has taken the time to read, favorite, and comment on this story. When we started it, I'm sure we didn't mean for it to take so long to get finished with it but life has a funny way of throwing a wrench into your well thought-out plans. That being said, thank you to everyone who stuck around with us. It really meant so much to us to know we had an anxious crowd, just waiting to find out what exactly we would do with Sam and Dean.**

**Again, thank you and we hope you enjoy this chapter**

**Supernaturalsam and Tree66**

**SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN**

**Chapter 11**

**Something's Right with the World Today**

Sam could have killed Dean as he watched his brother launch himself onto the powerful Hindu demon's back. He knew Dean was trying to help him as best as he could but it didn't serve any purpose if the stubborn man got himself killed in the process. Dean was weak enough as it was and Sam was pretty sure he was running on nothing more than pure fear and adrenaline—which wasn't the best combination.

Sam also wasn't going to let Dean's efforts go to waste either. Scooting out from under the demon, he got to his feet, stumbling as he reached for the discarded shotgun that had fallen from his grasp during the earlier attack from the Pishacha. Aiming it, Sam tried for a clear shot but it was hard with Dean and the thing wrestling in what could only be explained as a macabre dance of death.

Finally, the entity turned enough towards him that Sam figured it was now or never, especially after looking at Dean and seeing his brother was beginning to lose his precious grip around the Pishacha's neck.

"Dean, look out!" Sam yelled before firing, the blast of salt hitting the thing, the impact of the shot causing Dean to go flying off of its back. Sam watched in fear as his brother flew through the air, landing hard and rolling dangerously close to the damaged guardrail.

_Please, please don't go over the edge! You won't make it this time…_

Luckily, Dean stopped mere inches away from the edge of the cliff, but the threat still wasn't over yet as the Pishacha began to approach his weakened sibling. Sam fired another shot, relief flooding through him as the creature stopped its current path. That relief was short-lived as it turned and snarled, its attention only on eliminating Sam now.

_HantuM…_

Sam darted a glance at the downed man, seeing Dean's mouth opening and closing, but there was no sound coming out. Sam knew Dean was trying in vain to get the creature to focus on him once more and if they weren't in such a perilous situation, Sam would have gone right over to push Dean off the damn cliff for it.

Instead, he swallowed hard as the demon began its slow advance towards him, knowing if he didn't do something fast, there wouldn't be a chance to bitch at Dean later. Shooting a quick glance behind him, Sam saw the truck standing out as a salvation. Shooting one more look towards Dean, he saw the older Winchester trying to get up only to fall back to the ground in a heap.

_Just stay down and let me take care of this, Dean!_

Turning on his heel, Sam dashed for the tow truck, knowing that the Pishacha was right behind him. He'd barely gotten into the truck and closed the door when the creature's claws reached out and Sam felt a fiery, hot pain ripping between his shoulder blade the resultant spray of blood covering the rear window. Yelling out, Sam turned around as best as he could and fired another blast at the demon, the close range of the shot causing the demon to slightly fade but not completely.

Knowing that it wouldn't last long, Sam hurriedly opened the driver's side door of the cab and crawled out, landing on the ground in a tangle of limbs. Grunting as he pushed himself up, he slammed the door shut, trapping the demon inside the truck. Sam heard an ear-shattering screech and glanced inside to see the Pishacha had rematerialized and was now glaring at him.

"Screwed with the wrong family, you stupid bastard," Sam muttered with a smirk.

Straightening up to his full height, Sam nearly passed out as pain flashed across his back as blood saturated his clothing. He didn't know how bad he'd been injured by the Pishacha but now wasn't the time to worry about it. He needed to get over and check on Dean, knowing his brother was in ten times worse shape than he was.

Stumbling his way towards his downed sibling, Sam fell to his knees beside him.

"Dean?" Sam tried but Dean's eyelids barely fluttered in acknowledgement. Sighing, Sam lightly tapped on his face, hoping to elicit a response that way. "Dean, wake up or I'm going to get some snow and put it down your shirt."

Turning his head away from Sam, Dean opened his eyes, squinting up at him. "Dude…what the hell?"

"Come on, get up for me," Sam said, putting an arm under Dean's back and helping the injured man to sit up. "You've done enough laying down for a while now."

"Your bedside manner…is something left to be desired, Sammy," Dean muttered with a shake of his head.

Sam chuckled. "I'll see if I can work on that for you…when I'm not saving your ass, that is."

"Where's it at?"

Sam nodded towards the tow truck. "In there."

Dean glanced up to look, seeing the demon thrashing about inside. "Did he scramble your brains…or something? You do know that truck can't…hold him, right?"

"Dude, give me a little more credit than that," Sam replied. "What do you think I was up here doing before I went down to get you?"

Dean looked at him blankly.

"I drew the symbols from the curse box onto the truck after filling up the damn thing with the sandalwood. Believe me, he's not getting out of there any time soon," Sam explained.

"How the hell am I supposed…to get the car up here now?" Dean whined.

"We'll worry about that later, Dean. One problem at a time, okay?" Sam said wincing as another wave of pain washed over him, hoping his brother would fail to notice in his current condition.

Dean noticed it. "What happened, Sammy?"

"It's just another scratch, Dean. Nothing I can't handle after I get you taken care of."

"Let me see."

"I told you it was nothing."

"And I'm telling you I don't believe you," Dean answered, his voice a little stronger. He pushed Sam down, seeing the streak of crimson covering the back of his jacket. Looking through the jagged hole at the top, Dean saw the deep gash where the Pishacha had attacked his brother. "You call that a scratch?"

Sam pushed Dean away. "I've had worse."

Before Dean could argue with him further on the subject the sound of an approaching car caught the brothers' attention. Glancing up, they spotted a primer-riddled 1971 Chevelle heading towards them. As it got closer, there was no mistaking the trucker cap nestled on the driver's head—it was Bobby.

As Bobby pulled up behind the car Sam had "borrowed" and came to a stop, Dean finally seemed to notice it. "Dude, you stole that piece of crap?"

Sam gave him an exasperated glare as he painfully rose to his feet. "Would you rather me steal another Bug?"

Dean shrugged, wincing as he seemed to remember his injuries. "It wouldn't have been that surprising since you stole one before."

"Possession, Dean."

"Use whatever excuse you want, Sammy. You know you always wanted one of those chick cars."

"Bite me."

"Don't mention anything about biting unless you're bringing me a hot little blonde to the party."

Sam rolled his eyes, saying nothing as he walked over to meet Bobby. To say that the older man looked haggard would be an understatement. Dark circles had formed under his eyes and the stress was evident on Bobby's face, though he was trying his best to hide it.

"Where's the demon?" Bobby asked.

"It's in the truck, locked up tight," Sam assured him.

Bobby arched a brow. "How the hell did you manage that?"

Sam shrugged. "I just drew the same symbols you had on the curse box all over it. Figured if it worked the first time, it would have to work now."

"That's pretty smart."

"I tend to have a few moments every now and then."

"Now you're just getting full of yourself."

Sam chuckled.

"Hey, you two plan on staying over there all day long, gossiping like girls?" Dean asked, grumpily.

Bobby huffed. "Well, I see your brother's charming personality is still intact."

"Yeah, I don't think there's any way to get rid of that," Sam agreed, smiling.

"You do know that I can hear you, right?" Dean asked as they made their way towards him. As they came to a stop, he peered up at Bobby. "What the hell…took you so long to get here?"

Sam looked down at his brother, concern coursing through him as he could hear the fatigue and weakness once again taking residence in Dean. He really wasn't sure how Dean was managing to sit up for this long, thinking it somehow had to do more with stubbornness than anything else.

"Boy, if you'd learn how to drive your damn car you wouldn't have gotten into this mess in the first place," Bobby replied, annoyed. "I was bustin' my ass trying to get to the two of you."

"Ignore him, Bobby," Sam said, shooting his brother a glare.

"I usually do."

"Is this really…how you're going to treat an injured man?" Dean pouted.

"What we should be doing is getting your ass to a hospital," Sam said.

"Not until…demon is taken care of."

"Dean's right, Sam. There's no way in hell we can keep the Pishacha in that truck," Bobby replied. "All it takes is one ignorant fool to come along and let the thing out, making us start this business all over again."

"Well, did you find anything in Dad's notes about how to kill it?" Sam asked. "Because I honestly have no idea."

"There was nothing in all that gibberish," Bobby said with a sigh. "Your daddy was one of the best damn hunters I knew but that man was a slacker when it came to writin' down the important stuff."

"Do you have any suggestions then?" Sam asked.

"Well, we have our usual weapons of choice at our disposal—silver, iron, exorcisms."

Sam shook his head. "None of that's gonna work. It barely flinched when I hit it with the rocksalt."

Bobby scratched the back of his neck and shrugged. "We could always find another one of those mantras. Maybe there's something powerful enough to send this thing straight to Hell."

"Yeah…maybe…"

"There's always…another idea," Dean spoke up. "An…obvious one."

"And what's that?" Bobby asked.

"You could always…push the truck…off the cliff…"

"Now I know you're just pulling crap out of your ass," Bobby replied. "Didn't you get enough of cars flying off of cliffs to last you for a while?"

Sam slowly shook his head. "I don't think so, Bobby. I think Dean might be onto something."

Dean smirked. "See? I still got some…brains left."

"What are you thinking, Sam?" Bobby asked, ignoring the older Winchester.

"We have nothing to lose with Dean's idea. We push the truck off the cliff, it explodes. We know that fire can kill a lot of entities."

"But we have no idea if it will kill this thing or not," the grizzled hunter argued.

"You're right, we don't," Sam agreed. "But I'm not seeing any other option here."

Bobby shook his head in wonder. "This has to be without a doubt one of the craziest things I have ever heard. And I have heard a long list of crazy things in my lifetime."

"Never a…dull moment…with us," Dean replied, swaying a little.

Sam noticed that his brother was quickly losing the battle with his wills. "Whatever we're gonna do, we need to do it now. I'm not sure how much longer Dean's going to last."

"Don't worry about me, Sammy," Dean said. "Just get…it finished."

"You heard the man," Bobby said with a sigh as he glanced over at Sam. "Let's get this finished."

Moving away from Dean, they walked towards the back of the truck in silence. Sam could feel the demon watching them but he refused to give it the pleasure by returning its look. The only thing he was concerned with was killing it and then getting his brother the help that he needed.

Getting on either side of the truck, Sam nodded at Bobby, indicating that he was ready. He knew it was going to be a bitch to push, considering the truck wasn't in neutral but they were also catching a lucky break by having the vehicle already facing the cliff. All it would take was some heavy pushing to make it go flying.

The two men worked as one, heaving the truck forward, foot by foot. The strain was causing Sam's back to radiate with pain and he could feel a new wave of blood oozing down. Ignoring it, he continued to work with Bobby, knowing he could take care of himself later.

"I think one more push should do it," Bobby grunted, breathing heavily from the exertion. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief and walked over to the gas tank.

"What are you doing with that?"

"You want the damn thing to explode, don't you?" Bobby asked, arching a brow at the younger Winchester. Uncapping the tank, he pushed the rag in. "Did you honestly think it would just explode as soon as we pushed it over the cliff? This ain't a Hollywood movie, son."

Sam said nothing as he just stared at Bobby as the older man lit the end of the rag. Racing to the back of the truck, Bobby asked, "You ready?"

Sam nodded. "On the count of three…one…two…three!"

With one final push the truck went over the edge, crashing against the cliff face as it continued its descent. Going over to Dean, Sam helped his brother up, supporting him as they walked to the guardrail to peer down. A loud explosion rocked the area, followed closely by an earth-shattering screech as the demon was consumed by the fire.

"You think that did it?" Sam asked Bobby as the flames licked hungrily at the vehicle.

"I sure as hell hope so," Bobby replied.

"Did anyone…happen to bring…the marshmallows?" Dean joked weakly.

Sam glanced over at his sibling, a small smile gracing his lips at Dean's attempt at humor. Before Sam could come up with a reply though, Dean's eyes rolled in the back of his head and he collapsed against Sam, finally succumbing to exhaustion and his injuries.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Dean shifted uneasily against the crisp white sheets that covered his hospital bed. Glancing anxiously at the clock above the door, he couldn't help the nervousness that ebbed along his spine. Three days… three long days he'd been cooped up in this room, three days since getting off the side of that mountain, three days of listening to the old man in the opposite bed ramble on incessantly about every medical ailment he currently or _ever_ had.

Reaching down, Dean burrowed his fingers underneath the top of the cast that encased his lower right leg, his nails digging into the flesh just below the back of his knee as he scratched in desperation. At the moment, he really wanted to punch the person who ever said that "itching meant healing."

Still, all things considered, a little itching, some residual pain in his chest if he moved the wrong way, and a slight headache were all minor inconveniences compared to how dire things had been on the side of the mountain. He knew there had been moments when he'd been fairly certain that he was going to end up a meal for the ravenous Pishacha or a tiny smear on the ground two hundred feet below the ledge.

And it wasn't all bad, if he were totally honest. There was something to be said for warm blankets, a generally soft bed that had power controls, and the relative undivided attention of a certain red-headed, nursing assistant named Shannon. Not that he was one to exaggerate his pain, usually quite the opposite, but Dean certainly didn't mind pretending to be more helpless than usual, especially if it meant that the hot little CNA took her time washing his back or gently massaging his bed-stiffened body.

Dean's eyes flew back up to the clock. Almost nine, almost time for Shannon. He smiled broadly, closing his eyes as his mind reflected on the woman's delicate yet strong fingers kneading into the muscles on his back and neck, her gentle stroke as she lathered his skin and then tenderly wiped away the soap with the soft, warm cloth, her soothing voice as she cooed away the daggers of pain that flared when she accidentally touched a sore spot… the heady jasmine scent of her perfume as she bent dangerously close, her lithe body brushing against his, and her…

"Oh holy crap!" Dean muttered loudly, his eyes flying open as he shook his head to banish the mental images that were playing behind his eyes. "I gotta get out of here…"

The sound of soft footfalls coming toward the half-closed door interrupted the injured hunter's comment. He glanced at the entrance, anxiously, nervously, suddenly realizing that his heart was pounding against his chest with anticipation.

The door swung slowly open, the subtle creak of the hinge briefly reminding him of the Impala. By millimeters, the thick entry opened inward. He sniffed the air, waiting for the first hint of jasmine, the first flash of flaming auburn, the first syllable of that western Pennsylvanian accent.

But it never came.

Instead, Dean's eyes caught the shaggy tendrils of a brunette mop, the pungent smell of aftershave and the towering body of… his brother.

Dean let out a disappointed sigh. "Sammy," he greeted dejectedly, his body sagging back against the pillows.

"Good to see you too, Dean," his brother replied with a generous grin and flash of white teeth.

In a sweeping movement Sam produced a small white paper bag, tossing the package at Dean who deftly snagged it out of the air. He knew before opening it what the contents were, the aroma of grease, eggs, and sausage filling the air around him.

"Aw, Sammy. You weren't what I was hoping for, but I'll forgive you since you brought me breakfast," Dean said with a smile.

"Dare I even ask _what_ you were hoping for?" Sam asked hesitantly, his eyes wincing in expectation of his brother's answer.

"Let's… just say… you're about a foot too tall… and… not nearly… as pretty…" Dean answered as he tore into the biscuit.

"Nevermind. I should have known. What's her name?"

Dean swallowed with a gulp before washing down the last bite with a long draw from the Styrofoam cup Sam had placed on the bedside table. "Awww, Sammy. She has the most magical fingers. I'm telling you, the way she works that…"

"Dean! Please, I don't need to hear about it," Sam interrupted.

"Dude, I'm telling you. There's so nothing wrong with letting a beautiful woman bathe your body. It's cathartic."

"Cathartic, huh?

"Orgasmic?" Dean added with a devilish grin, chuckling when his baby brother's face curled up in disgust.

"Dean, please, it's too early in the morning to listen to your exploits. I still can't get the mental image of you and the Doublemint Twins out of my skull. Besides," Sam continued. "Are you supposed to be up to all these extra-curricular activities yet?"

"I'm hurt, Sammy, not dead," Dean answered, instantly regretting it as he watched his brother wince at the casual reference to his mortality. He covered the remark, quickly adding, "So, what's new today? You here to spring me?"

He watched Sam's face transform, going from the pinched, pained expression as his brother was obviously lost in thought about Dean's impending date with the Hellhounds, becoming softer, the creases around his eyes softening, dimpled cheeks filling out as Sam took on a look of relief. Dean knew this most recent brush with death had only served to bring his deal and the consequences to the forefront. Still, he was alive, escaping by the skin of his teeth like he somehow always managed to. Maybe that was a good thing, maybe his run of luck would continue and he would miraculously evade his crossroads contract.

_Yeah… right! You've been living on borrowed time for a long while, Dean. Even a cat eventually runs through its nine lives…_

"I'm not springing you from anywhere until your doc says so," Sam informed him with a commanding tone.

"He already did," Dean replied eagerly. "Was in here first thing making rounds. Checked my ribs, checked the cast and said I was doing great."

"Doing great does not equate a discharge, much less you being up and walking on that leg."

"You're such a stickler for details, Sammy."

"Dean, the Impala plunged off the side of a mountain with you inside. Oh, and let's not forget, a demon was snacking on your like you were a burger on an extra value meal. Three days in the hospital with an open fracture, broken ribs, exposure and enough lacerations to make Frankenstein jealous, isn't exactly the textbook recovery time."

"Ah, Sammy. Don't be such a drama queen. I didn't really 'plunge' over the side of a mountain, it was more like a short plummet with a sudden stop at the end," Dean teased in return with a little chuckle that jarred his injured body. Reflexively, he reached to splint the damaged ribs, his eyes flying up to see if his worrywart bother had noticed.

Sam had; the combined look of concern and annoyance flashing across his face.

"Besides," Dean continued more seriously. "Don't forget we have a somewhat persistent and pissed-off Fed on our asses. We've already been here long enough to hit Henrickson's radar and I'm not looking for a repeat of Green River, ya know?"

Sam was quiet for a moment, but then slowly nodded. "Yeah, I s'pose that fake insurance card Bobby had for you won't hold out for long either," he agreed ruefully.

It was Dean's turn to nod as he dug his fingers once again underneath his cast.

"Stop that," Sam ordered. "and finish your breakfast."

"Yes, mom!"

The young hunter dug back into the bag, pulling out a luke-warm hashbrown which disappeared into his mouth with one fluid movement. After two days trapped on the ledge with no food or water, the cold greasy taste of the fast food was very welcome. He chased it down with another sip of steaming coffee then sank back against the soft pillows behind his head with a satisfied sigh.

"So, I been meaning to ask you, what happened with the Pishacha?" Dean asked after a moment.

"You don't remember? You were there," Sam replied worriedly.

"I sorta remember you and Bobby pushing the truck over the side of the cliff, but not so much after that. I think I fell asleep."

"Asleep? Dude, you passed out."

"Did not. Besides, it was the blood loss."

"Whatever… anyway, Bobby stuffed a rag in the gas tank and lit it right before the truck went over. It hit a couple hundred feet below and exploded like a scene out of a Bruce Willis movie," Sam recounted.

"And that's it?"

"Guess so," Sam said with a shrug.

"Guess so? What the hell kind of answer is that? Sam, we can't risk that damn thing getting loose again," Dean cried out, sitting up abruptly.

The sudden shift set a wave of pain through his newly set leg and Dean gasped, his hand lashing out to grab at the fiberglass encased extremity. Sam moved to his side, but the elder sibling waved him off.

"Look, Sammy," Dean continued, his breath coming from between clenched teeth. "That bastard killed that poor man, nearly killed me _and_ you, and that was after it had been boxed up for nearly five years. If it gets back out in the world, gets its full strength back, God only knows what it can do, or, how we'll stop it next time."

Sam reached out and gently pressed Dean back down to the bed. "Dude, relax. The truck was fully involved. The Pishacha was trapped inside, it wasn't getting out. And Bobby's sure that between the runes outside and the fire, the demon was destroyed."

"Bobby's sure?"

"Well, pretty sure, at least."

"Pretty sure? I thought you didn't like 'pretty sure,'" Dean reminded.

"Bite me, Dean. I sorta had more pressing things on my mind at the time," Sam threw back.

Dean chuckled. There was nothing better than getting under his brother's skin unless it was using Sam's own words against him.

The soft sound of more footsteps approaching the hospital room sounded and Dean's smile broadened as the door swung open to reveal a beautiful young redhead dressed in pale green scrubs, carrying fresh blankets and towels.

"Shannon!" the injured hunter greeted eagerly. "My angel of mercy."

"Dean," she returned. "my naughty patient. Were you a good boy during the night or am I going to have to play bad nurse again?"

The young woman smiled suggestively as she looked at Dean, her face suddenly blushing when she spotted Sam standing off to the side.

"Uh, oh…you have a visitor. I can come back later," the nurse offered apologetically.

"No! No! He's just leaving. Sam would never stand in the way of my recovery, now would ya, Sammy?"

"Errr… uh… Dean…"

Dean shot his brother a wily grin, but his eyes held an ominous glare that was not to be mistaken.

"Uh, yeah… I'll just go wait for Bobby while you get your… uh… well… yeah… just enjoy…" Sam stammered, moving toward the door.

"Really, it's no problem, I can come back later," the redhead insisted.

"No, you can stay," Dean implored, his voice vaguely holding a hint of begging.

"Hey, am I too late for the party?" a deeper voice interrupted.

The occupants looked over to the door and the arrival of Bobby Singer. The elder man stood in the doorway, a mischievous smile on his face as he took in the scene before him.

"You have visitors, I'll just come back later," Shannon stated nervously, whirling around and dashing from the room.

Dean sighed loudly and dropped his head solidly back against the pillow with a groan. "Damn, Bobby!"

"What? Did I interrupt something?" the bearded man asked.

"Thank God you did," Sam added.

"I hate you both," Dean hissed.

"Now is that any way to thank us for saving your ass?" Bobby teased.

Sam's laughter did nothing to make Dean feel any better. As eager as he was to escape the confines of the hospital, the idea of missing out on the chance for one last bath and massage stung like a forgotten birthday.

"Okay, well since you've both ruined my morning, what say we ditch this popsicle stand?" he asked.

"You s'posed to be going anywhere?" Bobby asked worriedly. "Surely you bought a little more than three days in this joint. Besides, it didn't look like you were in such a hurry to scoot out of here just a minute ago. Are you even supposed to be up on that leg yet?"

"That's what I asked too," Sam interjected with a knowing frown.

"Look, we already had this discussion. I might not be up for tangling with a pissed- off cannibal demon, but staying here much longer is just tempting fate."

Both men nodded in agreement, understanding that the law was less than open-minded when it came to the Winchester brothers and their ghost-busting activities.

"So, how do we pull this off? Not like you're just casually strolling out of here," Bobby asked.

"First, toss me my clothes out of the closet. Then if you can grab me those crutches, I'll be just fine. The nurses are all busy taking report or passing meds, they won't miss me for a while. Bobby, if you can make sure you have the Impala running by the loading dock, Sam and I'll meet you there in about fifteen," Dean instructed.

Neither man initially moved.

"Sam, come on. Get my clothes." Still, neither Sam nor Bobby budged. Instead, they merely exchanged nervous glances between them.

"Uh, Dean. There's a little problem with your plan," Bobby said after a minute.

The injured young man became concerned by the sullen look on his old friend's face. Next to him, Sam mirrored the expression. Was there something else? Something they hadn't told him? Surely his injuries weren't that bad, yet both men looked at him as though he was terminally ill.

In some respects, maybe he was…

"Come on, guys. What's going on?" he asked worriedly.

"Uh, it's the Impala…" Bobby began slowly.

Dean's eyes went wide with concern. "What about her? What's happened to my baby?"

"Dean, you have to know, we tried. We tried everything we could… but…" Sam offered.

"Oh my God," Dean cried out. "You left her there? On that ledge? How could you?"

"We tried to pull her back up to the top, but damn, Dean, that old girl was a heavy bitch, one of the best Detroit ever put out, and that cliff was just too sheer," Bobby explained.

"Oh God," Dean repeated, feeling the room around him suddenly begin to spin wildly, the edges of his vision blurring as his heart hammered within his chest.

"We thought about salting and burning her, you know, kinda poetic all things considered," Sam added.

Dean's breath came in gasps as he crimped his eyes tightly closed. _It couldn't be… it just couldn't be… His car… his beautiful, wonderful car… gone…_

"Dean…" Sam's voice broke through softly, but he didn't care, wasn't listening.

_Gone… like home… like Mom… like Dad… all gone…_the recently-silent inner voice suddenly piped in.

Like you will be soon too…

His breathing now coming in ragged gulps, Dean absently felt Sam's hand's grab his shoulders.

"Dean?"

"He's actually hyperventilating…"

"Dean… DEAN!" Sam shouted, shaking the injured man's upper body.

"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea…" Bobby suggested.

"Dean, it was just a joke." Sam's voice seemed distant and for a moment, Dean wondered if he was back inside his beloved car, trapped on the side of the mountain.

"Honestly, son, we were just messing with you. The Impala's fine, err… well, she will be," Bobby insisted.

The young hunter slowly opened his eyes, the brief moment of nausea residing. He glanced up at the two concerned faces that stood at his bedside.

"My car?" he queried, his eyes imploring at his brother and old friend.

"She's okay. We were just screwing with you," Sam answered. "I'm sorry, Dean. We didn't mean for this to happen."

Dean glared at him now, realization dawning on him that he'd just been the brutal end of a very cruel prank.

"I _really_ hate both of you now…" he groaned, relief washing through him. "How could you be so heartless? That wasn't _even_ funny!"

"Dude, after what you just put us through, you and your stubborn ass. It seemed like the least you owed us was a little fun at your expense, especially after we busted our humps getting here to rescue you off the side of that mountain," Sam informed him.

"I didn't do that on purpose."

"You never do, Dean. You're like a trouble magnet sometimes. And that's not even the point," Sam replied.

"Then what the hell is. Dammit, Sam. You think I like having my body served up for a hungry demon?"

"No, I don't think that. The point is, I'm tired of the lies," the tall sibling lamented. "I pretty much had to pry out of you what had happened and how bad you were hurt."

"What good would it have done if you knew? You would have only freaked more," Dean rationalized.

"Because I care, you big stupid idiot. Do you think it makes you seem any bigger or stronger when you try to cover up how bad you're hurt?"

"It wasn't that bad…"

"No? That's why you're laying there in the bed right now, huh?" Bobby threw in.

Dean cast him a dirty look. "You too?"

"Yes, me too. Dammit boy, we thought we were gonna lose you up there," the elder hunter bemoaned. "We've been busting our humps to find a way to save you from that crossroads deal, we're not about to let your ass go a minute sooner."

Dean smiled sheepishly, shrinking back slightly as his brother and Bobby let their emotions display.

"I know…" he said softly.

"Do you?" Sam asked. "'cause lately, it sorta seems like you've given up a few months early. I mean, I know you've always been a shoot first and ask questions later kind of person, but anymore, it's just…"

"Okay… okay… I get it. No more lies. From now on, if I wake up with so much as a sniffle, you two will be the first to know," Dean joked.

There was a long silence as Sam and Bobby merely stood there staring at him, only the noise from the activity outside breaking the uncomfortable stillness.

It was awkward… no worse than that, it was downright nerve-wracking as Dean lay there under their tight scrutiny. The replay of Sam's confrontation outside the farm in Lincoln coursed through his head.

He hadn't lied to his brother back then; he _was_ tired of it all. Hadn't the voices in his head confirmed as much while he was trapped inside the car? Yet still, he hadn't meant to cause any grief for Sam or Bobby. He'd never meant to lie to his brother; he just didn't want to hurt him with the truth.

"Alright, I'm sorry," Dean acquiesced. "No more holding things back. I swear."

Sam smiled, but as Dean looked at him, there remained a hint of sadness deep within his brother's hazel eyes.

"So, seriously… can I please get out of here?" he pleaded.

Bobby laughed, breaking the tension. "I'll go get the car. I so don't want to see your backside hanging out of that hospital gown."

He disappeared out the doorway as Sam retrieved clean clothes from the nearby closet.

A few desperate, pain-filled moments, plus the quick slicing of the right leg of his jeans to allow for the cast and Dean was dressed.

"You sure this is smart? Another day couldn't hurt," Sam offered.

"Nah, I'm good," Dean replied. "Honestly, Sam. No lies. I don't want to lose another day lying around here, hot Shannon or not."

Sam's face turned downward, Dean's inadvertent reference to wasted time just more salt in the open wound between them.

"Dean…" he began sullenly.

"No, Sammy!" Dean interrupted with a raised hand. "We're not doing this now, matter of fact, we're not doing this ever. I already told you, I'm not spending the year marking days off on a calendar or moaning about my fate. Broken leg or not, I'm living, dude. I'm not gonna hide away or waste away. You know me better than that."

"I know that, Dean…" Sam's replied, his voice barely audible.

"It's gonna be okay, Sammy," Dean promised with a good-natured slap on his brother's shoulder.

Their eyes meeting briefly and Dean flashed the best smile of confidence he could muster. He hoped that Sam believed it.

He only wished he could believe it too.

***

The relief Dean felt at seeing his baby on a trailer behind Bobby's car was fast replaced by the acknowledgement that he was being relegated to the back seat for the duration of the drive back to South Dakota. He protested, loudly and vigorously, but there was no winning against Sam's stalwart determination to make him as comfortable as possible in the rear, equipping Dean with several pillows, a thick blanket and a small cooler filled with soda and candy.

Dean protested, after all it was expected and he didn't want to disappoint the other men, but after the first hundred miles, he was thankful to be able to stretch out his injured leg and lean against the soft pillows to ease the ache in his chest. Without a doubt, whatever motel the two had been staying at during his hospital stay was now devoid of most of the linens by the looks of his back seat accommodations.

They drove for several hours in relative silence, finally stopping at a small convenience store outside Strongsville, Ohio to refuel, much to the appreciation of Dean's bladder. He pushed open the back door of the Chevy and was struggling to get out when Sam returned from inside.

With a lot of effort and even more assistance than Dean was willing to admit he needed, they made their way to the restroom and back just as Bobby finished pumping the gasoline.

"How about letting me ride shotgun for a bit?" Dean asked hopefully.

Sam smirked. "Dude, just get in the back before you fall on your face," he ordered.

"Heartless, bitch," Dean snarked under his breath.

"Broken leg… elevation… risk of complications… any of that ringing a bell?" Sam retorted. "Just get your ass in there and be glad you're not still parked in the hospital. You wanted out, now you're stuck with doing what I tell you."

Dean huffed and glanced at Bobby across the roof.

"Don't look at me like that, boy. I'm siding with your brother on this one. Now why don't you just get in the back and enjoy the ride, Miss Daisy," the older man teased.

Hopping on one leg, unbalanced on the crutches, he managed to shoot dual middle fingers in the direction of both hunters. They laughed, he scowled, and quickly ducked into the rear to escape their humor.

With a slam of the passenger's side door, Sam dropped into the front seat as Bobby pulled back out onto the road. Dean made no effort to hide his displeasure at being stuck in the back, out of control and bored to tears as the scenery went by for miles.

His ploy played out, deep sighs breaking through the silence of the interior until Sam spun around and shot him a lethal glare.

"Are you a two-year-old or what?" the younger sibling demanded with irritation as he slammed shut the large book he'd been reading.

"I'm bored," Dean whined, his fingers digging once more underneath the edge of the cast.

"Stop scratching and read something," Sam commanded.

"Got nothing to read."

"Here, take a look at this. Its' got some interesting info on demons. Might come in handy."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Nah!"

"You have the latest issue of Busty Asian Beauties…."

"Already read it… three times."

"Well then take a nap," Sam suggested.

Dean sighed loudly again, dropping back against his makeshift bed and closing his eyes.

"Dean… hang on," Sam called out.

He opened his eyes to see Sam rummaging through his backpack, curiosity enough to make him lean forward slightly and peer over the front seat.

"I almost forgot. I promised you this and well…" Sam began, twisting around to hand Dean a yellowed envelope.

"What is it?"

"A letter… from Mom…" Sam choked out. "There was one to me too."

"Did you read mine?" Dean asked as he lifted the flap and pulled out the contents.

Sam shook his head. "I wouldn't do that."

Dean nodded and sunk back against the seat, slowly opening the folded letter, his heart pounding as the first loops of his mother's handwriting greeted his eyes.

_My Dearest Dean,_

_The happiest day of my life was the day you were born. You were so perfect, so quiet, looking up at your father and I with those eyes that seemed the embodiment of love and strength. _

_You were such a good baby, hardly ever crying, always smiling… your eyes always taking in everything around you. And even when you were barely more than a couple of weeks old, I remember you grabbing my finger with your tiny hand and grasping it with so much strength… I remember thinking then that I never wanted that contact to break. _

_Even now, as you lay resting on my lap, even in slumber, there is a fierce strength about you that is so wonderfully tempered by a four-year-old's laughter, warmth and excitement about everything in the world around him. Watching you grow, play, learn and most especially laugh, is to know that God indeed has a plan for us all. I can only hope that someday you will know that same joy and overwhelming feeling of love. _

_So, I write this letter to you now, my dearest, because today, that same hand that once so strongly grasped my finger, was grasped by the hand of his baby brother for the first time – and I couldn't help but realize the significance of that simple action. _

_While you will always be our firstborn, our beloved son, you are no longer ours alone. For in that brief contact, you became Sam's. That same light that sparkled in your eyes that day nearly four years ago, shined again that moment as you looked down into the eyes of your new baby brother. _

_Never let the connection that you two forged today be dulled or severed. And while you will always have your father and I at your side to watch over and protect you, nothing will ever replace the love and faithfulness of that bond. _

_Watch over little Sammy. Guide, protect and teach him as he follows in your footsteps. Even as the years go by, and your father and I will pass, you will always have family in your brother._

_Know that you hold an awesome responsibility to Sam, but also rest assured in the knowledge that he, in turn, will always be there for you. Even if miles separate you, even if life intervenes, nothing can replace nor diminish the grasp of that hand… _

_Sleep well my son, safe in the knowledge that your father and I love you dearly, that your brother will always be at your side and that angels are watching over you, always…_

_All my love, _

_Mom_

Dean refolded the letter tenderly, his chest aching painfully as his mother's gentle voice still echoed in his mind.

He didn't honestly remember that much about her, the sound of her laugh, the look of her face, the rare memories that he ferociously clung too were really only miniscule traces of what he dreamed her to be. Even his encounter with the Djinn hadn't really been anything more than a bizarre combination of hazy recollection and fervent wish.

For the past twenty-four years, he'd fooled himself into creating an image of a person that deep-down, he truly didn't know. Never having the chance to get to know her beyond goodnight kisses, scraped knees, fresh-baked cookies and unearthly screams of torment framed by heat and flames all framed by a four-year-old's hazy memory. Until now…

This letter was hardcore proof that Mary Winchester had lived, had dreamed, and had loved her sons. The letter was evidence that she had wanted something more for them, had wanted normality and a life where she and their Dad grew old together, surrounded by the family that Dean could only dream of.

He looked back at the letter still clenched in his hand as his eyes glistened with moisture. Would she be proud of him now? Had he fulfilled her expectations of watching out for Sam?

"Dean?"

The young hunter looked up and wiped at the corner of his eyes.

"Yeah," he answered, swallowing hard against the stubborn lump that had lodged in his throat.

"You okay?" Sam asked gently.

"Yeah, I'm good," Dean replied with a thin smile.

"What did she say in her letter?" Sam chanced.

"Nothing much, just warning me about this pain-in-the-ass little brother that had just popped into the world," Dean joked. "What was in yours?"

Sam laughed and nodded. "Yeah, pretty much the same in mine. Mostly just telling me about Dad and this dorky little boy that was my big brother."

"Whatever!" Dean returned with a chuckle.

Sam turned back to the front and reopened the book, but Dean could see the corner of his eyes and knew the younger man was lost in thought. He watched Sam in silence for several more minutes, memories of his brother as a small baby morphing gradually to the tall man that sat before him.

_I tried to watch out for him, Mom! I did everything I could after you were gone, and then after Dad was gone. I tried to protect him, but now…I can't be there for him much longer, Mom. I'm sorry…_

He wiped angrily at a stray tear, glad for the moment that sequestered in the back seat, no one noticed.

Folding the envelope in half, Dean tucked it into his jacket, depositing it in the interior left pocket just over his heart. For a moment, he thought he could almost smell her, that soft, warm scent that was indefinable yet distinguishingly hers.

_I miss you so much, Mom…_

Bobby's vocal yawn stirred him from his revelry and Dean glanced up as the elder hunter fumbled with the dial on the radio. The random notes of several songs blasted from the old speakers until the scratchy twang of Waylon and Willie erupted.

_Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys… Don't let them pick guitars and drive them old trucks… Make them be doctors and lawyers and such…_

… _Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys… They'll never stay home and they're always alone… Even with someone they love…_

"You gotta be kidding me!" Dean complained from the rear.

"Hey, this is a classic," Bobby defended. "You got a problem with country music?"

"Yeah, I do. First of all, it's depressing and second, it hardly qualifies as music. Can't you find a station with some classic rock? Maybe some Bad Company or better yet… Metallica?" he pleaded.

"You call _that _music?"

"Come on, injured man here and all. Humor me?" Dean whined.

Sam laughed and spun around. "Aw, Dean. That concussion must have been worse than the docs thought," he stated. "You've forgot the cardinal rule."

"And what's that?" Dean asked sarcastically.

"Driver picks the music, back seat shuts his cakehole…" Sam answered, twisting the knob until the country music drowned out the hysterical laughter of the two men in the front seat.

Dean groaned, sunk down into the layer of pillows and closed his eyes as the afternoon sun dropped below the horizon. He ignored the music, ignored the wafting laughter, even managed to ignore the incessant itch beneath the cast.

Pressing his hand against his chest, there was an odd feeling of warmth that emanated from the interior pocket. It enveloped him, comforted him, and as he drifted into the darkness of sleep, he could hear his mother's voice lulling him away, overshadowing the inner voice that had tormented him with its doubt and self-accusation…

And while the clock still ticked and his deal still loomed, for the first time in weeks, Dean slept peacefully, knowing that at least for that moment, one of Heaven's angels truly _was_ watching over him.

**END**


End file.
